UCSB  LIBRARY 

X-  ^-n  S  6? 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY; 


OE, 


WITHOUT  AND  \YITHIN   US 


BY 


JOHN    S.    ADAMS 


BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED    BY    J.    BUFFUM, 

23     COBNHILL. 
1855. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  la  the  year  1S54,  lijr 

J.    BUFFUM, 
In  the  Clerk'*  Office  of  Ihe  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


HOMART *   BOBBINS. 

b(lu4  Ijp.  u4  8tmM;r.  rMM 

BOSTON. 

rnm  <T  OM.  C.  Bu*.  I  CmUIL 


CONTENTS 


PAdS 

SAVED  BY  KINDNESS, 9 

THE  LOVE  OF  ELIXORE, 31 

'T  is  SWEET  TO  BE  REMEMBERED, 33 

I  CALL  THEE  MINE, 34 

THE  OLD  THEE  AND  ITS  LESSON, 35 

VOICES  FROM  THE  SPIRIT  LAND, 40 

THE  BEACON  LIGHT, 41 

BEAR  UP, 42 

A  WELCOME  SONG  TO  SPRING, 43 

THE  HOPE  OF  THE  FALLEN, 44 

THOUGHTS  THAT  COME  FROM  LONG  AGO, 77 

DETERMINED  TO  BE  RICH, 78 

THE  HEAVEN-SENT,  HEAVEN-RETURNED 79 

FLOWERS,  BRIGHT  FLOWERS, 80 

FORGET  ME  NOT, 81 

WHAT  is  TRUTH? 82 

THE  HOMESTEAD  VISIT, 87 

THE  MARINER'S  SONG, 89 

LOVE'S  LAST  WORDS, 90 

LIGHT  IN  DARKNESS, 91 

Mr.  VERNON,  AND  THE  TOMB  OF  WASHINGTON, 92 

FREEDOM'S  GATHERING, 98 

SONG  OF  THE  BIRD, 102 

I  CHANGE  BUT  IN  DYING, 103 

1* 


6  CONTENTS. 

UK  is  TUT  BROTIIEB 103 

TUB  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK 104 

ANGELINA 128 

FAREWELL,  MY  NATIVE  LAND, 130 

UNLEARNED  TO  LOVE, 131 

WHAT  WAS  IT  ? 131 

LETTERS  AND  LETTER-WRITING, 133 

A  VISION  OF  REALITY, 141 

JEWELS  OF  THE  HEART, 145 

LIGHT  FROM  A  BETTER  LAND 146 

POOR  AND  WEARY, 147 

'I'm:  BANDBOX  MOVEMENT 148 

XKW  ENGLAND  HOMES,      151 

ONWARD  COURAGEOUSLY 152 

A  FOREST  PIC-NIC  SONG, 153 

THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE, 155 

THE  ADVENT  OF  HOPE 164 

CHILD  AND  SIRE, 1C4 

A  BROTHER'S  WELCOME, ,  169 

THE  IMMENSITY  OF  CREATION, 170 

A  VISION  OF  HEAVEN, 175 

THERE'S  HOPE  FOR  THEE  YET, 177 

SOLILOQUY  OVER  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  WIFE, 177 

THE  FUGITIVES,  . 179 

THE  UNIVERSAL  JUBILEE, 180 

THE  WIDOW'S  STORY, 181 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  RED  MEN, 191 

SUNLIGHT  ON  THE  SOUL 194 

A  SONO  FROM  THK  ABSENT, 195 

To  THE  LOVED  ONE  AT  HOME 195 

TWILIGHT  FOREST  HYMN 196 

THE  SUMMER  SHOWER 197 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  op  AH  AUTOMATON 198 

To  THE  UNKNOWN  DONOR  OF  A  BOUQUET, 207 

To  A  Surra  ra  HEAVEN 208 


CONTENTS.  7 

I  DREAMED  OF  THEE  LAST  NIGHT,  LOVE 210 

THEY  TELL  OF  HAPPY  BOWERS, 211 

MAN  CANNOT  LIVE  AND  LOVE  NOT, 211 

BETTER  THAN  GOLD, 213 

GONE  AWAY,  .   .  • ' 227 

LINES  TO  MY  MIFE,  .• 228 

CHEER  UP, 230 

TRUST  THOU  IN  GOD, 231 

THE  MINISTRATION  OF  SORROW, '. 232 

GIVING  PUBLICITY  TO  BUSINESS 234 

THE  MISSION  OF  KINDNESS, 2£2 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  FALLEN, 245 

Jo?  BEYOND, 246 

THE  SUMMER  DAYS  ARE  COMING 247 

THE  MAN  WHO  KNOWS  EVERYTHING, 248 

PRIDE  AND  POVERTY, 251 

WORDS  THAT  TOUCH  THE  INNER.  HEART, 253- 

OUR  HOME, 254 

SPECULATION  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCE, 256 

RETROSPECTION,  265 

NATURE'S  FAIR  DAUGHTER,  BEAUTIFUL  WATER, 269 

THE  TEST  OF  FRIENDSHIP, 270 

WEEP  NOT, 271 

RICH  AND  POOR,    273 

THE  HOMEWARD  BOUND, 282 

THE  POOR  OF  EARTH, .   ; 283 

IF  I  DON'T  OTHERS  WILL, 285 

NOT   MADE   FOR   AN    EDITOR,  . 288 

HERE  's  TO  THE  HEART  THAT  's  EVER  BRIGHT, 296 

MORNING  BEAUTY, • 297 

THE  RECOMPENSE  OF  GOODNESS,  .* 297 

BRIDAL  SONGS, 298 

THE  JUG  AFLOAT,  300 

GlVE,    AND    STAY    THEIR   MlSERY, 310 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  MAN,  .  oil 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAUSB  AND  THINK, 312 

LITTLE  NELLY, 314 

WE  SHALL  ALL  BE  II  MTV  SOON, 319 

K  i  MON 321 

THE  VILLAGE  MYSTERY, « 323 

THE  WAYSIDE  DEATH, 32'J 

BEAUTY  AND  INNOCENCE, 331 

NIGHT,  * 332 

NOT  DEAD,  BUT  CHANGED, 335 

THE  DISINHERITED 336 

THE  SEASONS  ALL  ARE  BEAUTIFUL, 3GO 

SPRING 362 

A  TEXT  FOR  A  LIFETIME, 365 

Now  CLOSE  THE  BOOK, 869 


TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 


SAVED  BY  KINDNESS. 

"  A  kind  word  is  of  more  value  than  gold  or  precious  stones." 
CHA  PTER     I. 

"  THEN  you  are  nere  !  "  said  a  stern,  gruff  voice,  address 
ing  a  pale,  sickly-looking  youth,  whose  frame  trembled  and 
whose  lip  quivered  as  he  approached  one  who  sat  at  the  side 
of  a  low  pine  table  ;  —  it  was  his  master,  a  man  of  about 
forty,  of  athletic  form,  and  of  power  sufficient  to  crush  the 
.feeble  youth. 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  "  if  you  are  sure  that  you  gave  it 
to  him,  go  to  bed ;  but  mind  you,  whisper  —  breathe  not  the 
secret  to  a  living  soul,  on  peril  of  your  life  !  You  may  evade 
my  grasp,  but  like  blood  I  will  track  you  through  life,  and 
add  a  bitter  to  your  every  cup  of  sweet." 

The  lad  had  no  sooner  left  the  room  than  a  man  entered, 
whose  carelessly  arranged  apparel  and  excited  appearance 
indicated  tkat  something  of  vast  importance  —  at  least,  as 
far  as  he  was  concerned  —  burthened  his  mind. 

"  Harry,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  upon  a  chair,  "  I 
fear  we  are  betrayed  —  discovered  —  completely  used  up." 

"Discovered!"  shouted  the  person  addressed.  "How? 
where  1  why  ?  " 


10  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

"  It  is  so,  friend  Harry.  The  boy  you  sent  made  a  sad 
error." 

"Then  murder  the  boy!"  and,  clutching  a  dagger,  he 
motioned  to  leave  the  room,  and  would  have  done  so  to 
plunge  it  in  the  bosom  of  the  lad.  had  not  his  informant  in 
terfered,  and  thus  prevented  him  from  executing  so  rash  and 
cruel  an  act. 

"  What !' —  I  will  —  will  do  it !  "  he  shouted,  endeavoring 
to  release  himself  from  the  hands  of  the  other. 

"  Never  ! "  was  the  bold,  unwavering  response.  "  Move  a 
step,  and  death  shall  be  thy  doom.  Seest  thou  that  ?  "  and 
the  speaker  drew  from  his  bosom  a  richly-mounted  pistol. 

"Doubtless  thou  art  right,"  said  Harry,  in  a  more  calm 
manner;  "  the  excitement  of  the  moment  urged  me  to  des 
peration,  and,  if  any  but  you  had  arisen  in  my  path,  the 
glistening  steel  should  have  met  his  heart.  But,  Bill,  how, 
—  I  am  confused,  my  eyes  swim, —  tell  me,  how  are  we  dis 
covered  '!  Must  the  last  act  in  the  great  drama  of  our  fortune- 
making  be  crushed  in  the  bud  ?  —  and  who  dare  do  it  1 " 

"If  you  will  restrain  your  indignation,  I  will  tell  you." 

"  A  hard  task,  yet  I  will  try." 

'••  That  answer  will  not  do ;  you  must  say  something  more 
positive." 

"  Then  I  say,  I  will." 

"  Enough, —  the  boy  Sim  handed  the  note  to  the  kitchen- 
girl." 

"  But,  Bill,  think  you  she  suspected  its  contents  ?  " 

"  That  I  cannot  say,  but  she  is  inquisitive,  and  has  been 

known  to  unseal  letters  committed  to  her  care,  by  some  in- 

.  genious  way  she  has  invented.     She  looked  uncommonly 

when  she  handed  it  to  me  and  said,  s  Mr.  Bang,  that's 

of  no  small  importance  to  you.'  " 

deuce  she  did  !     I  fear  she  deserves  the  halter," 
said  Harry. 

"What,  with  the  h  off?" 


SAVED    BY   KINDNESS.  11 

"No,  there  is  too  much  Caudleism  in  her  to  make  her 
worthy  of  that;  but  this  is  no  time  for  our  jokes.  Your 
suspicions  are  too  true ;  but  how  shall  we  act  1  what  plans 
shall  we  adopt?" 

"None,  Harry,  but  this; — we  must  act  as  though  we 
were  the  most  honest  men  on  earth,  and  act  not  as  though 
we  suspected  any  of  suspecting  us." 

.    "  0,  yes,  I  understand  you,  Bill ;  we  must  not  suspect 
anything  wrong  in  her." 

"  That 's  it,"  answered  Bill,  and,  plunging  his  hand  into 
his  pocket,  he  drew  from  thence  a  small  scrap  of  greasy, 
pocket-worn  paper,  and  read  a  few  words  in  a  low  whisper 
to  his  friend  Harry.  A  nod  from  the  latter  signified  his 
approval.  He  returned  the  mysterious  memorandum  to  his 
pocket,  and  planting  upon  his  head  a  poor,  very  poor  apology 
for  a  hat,  swung  his  body  round  a  few  times  on  his  heel,  and 
leaving  the  house,  pushed  open  a  small  wicket-gate,  and 
entered  the  street.  He  hurriedly  trudged  along,  heaping 
silent  curses  upon  the  head  of  Harry's  boy,  the  kitchen-girl, 
and  sundry  other  feminine  and  masculine  members  of  the 
human  family  not  yet  introduced  to  the  reader. 

Bold  Bill  gone.  Harry  sat  for  some  considerable  length 
of  time  ruminating  upon  the  strange  turn  affairs  had  taken, 
and  indulging  in  vague  speculations  upon  whether  the  next 
would  be  as  unfavorable :  and  at  this  point  of  our  story  we 
will  divulge  somewhat  of  his  history. 

Henry  Lang  had  been  in  years  past  a  man  well-to-do  in 
the  world  ;  he  was  once  a  merchant  respected  for  his  strict  in 
tegrity  and  punctuality  in  business  affairs;  but  by  a  false  step, 
a  making  haste  to  be  rich,  he  was  ruined.  The  great  land 
speculation  of  '37  and  thereabout  was  the  chief,  and  in  fact 
the  only  cause  of  his  misfortune.  On  one  day  he  could 
boast  of  his  thousands,  and  no  paper  held  better  credit  than 
that  signed  or  endorsed  by  him.  The  next,  the  bubble  broke, 


12  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

his  fortune  was  scattered,  his  riches  took  to  themselves  wings 
and  flew  away,  his  creditors,  like  vultures,  flocked  around 
and  speedily  devoured  what  little  remained  of  his  once  large 
possessions.  I1--  \va>  a  man  easily  affected  by  such  occur 
rences,  and  they  deeply  wounded  his  sensitive  feelings. 
What  should  he  do  ?  He  looked  around  upon  those  who 
once  professedly  loved  him ;  but  no  hand  was  extended,  no 
heart  sympathized  with  him  in  the  hour  of  trouble.  He  left 
his  country,  and  with  it  a  wife  and  one  child,  a  daughter, 
lovely,  if  not  in  personal  appearance,  in  highly  virtuous  and 
intellectual  qualities,  which,  after  all,  will  be  admitted  to  be 
of  more  value  than  that  which  time  withers  and  sickness 
destroys. 

With  a  sad  heart  Mr.  Lang  left  these  and  the  spot  of 
earth  around  which  many  fond  recollections  clustered.  After 
twenty  months  of  tedious  wanderings,  he  returned,  but  he 
was  a  changed  man ;  his  ambitious  spirit  had  been  crushed, 
all  his  hopes  had  departed,  and  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
fanciful  freaks  of  a  disordered  mind.  Defeated  in  his  honest 
endeavors  to  obtain  a  livelihood,  he  was  now  seeking  out  dis 
honest  ways  and  means  to  retrieve  his  fallen  fortune.  He 
sought  for  those  of  a  kindred  spirit,  nor  was  he  long  in  find 
ing  such ;  in  a  short  time  he  became  acquainted,  and  soon 
after  connected,  with  a  gang  of  adventurous  men.  about  six 
in  number,  who  by  various  fraudulent  means  were  each  amass 
ing  much  wealth. 

"  And  he  deserted  me  in  this  my  time  of  need  !  Can  it 
be  true  that  he  has  gone'.1  For  him  I  would  willingly  have 
endured  any  privation.  Did  he  not  know  that  my  love  was 
strong  ?  Could  he  not  believe  me  when  I  said,  that,  as  I 
joyed  with  him  in  his  prosperity,  I  would  mourn  with  him 
in  its  reverse  ?  —  that  I  could  ever  be  near  to  comfort  and 
console, —  one  with  him  at  all  times,  under  all  circum 
stances  ?  " 


SAVED    BY    KINDNESS.  13 

"  Comfort  yourself,  dear  mother !  "  said  a  calm  voice. 
"Remember  that  these  trials  are  for  our  good,  and  that  the 
sorrows  of  earth  are  but  to  prepare  us  for  the  joys  of  heaven. 
Cheer  up,  mother  !  let  these  thoughts  rejoice  thy  heart ! 
Despair  not,  but  take  courage  !  " 

With  such  words  did  the  daughter  administer  consolation 
to  the  afflicted,  when  hearing  that  her  "husband  had  forsaken 
her  and  sailed  for  a  foreign  port.  It  was  indeed  a  heavy 
blow,  and  she  felt  it  severely.  She  could  have  endured  the 
thought  of  having  all  her  earthly  possessions  taken  from  her, 
—  but  to  be  deserted,  to  be  left  at  such  a  time  dependent 
upon  the  charities  of  the  world  for  a  subsistence,  such  a 
thought  she  was  not  prepared  to  withstand. 

The  few  words  of  Julia  having  been  said,  a  deep  silence 
for  some  moments  pervaded  the  room.  She  sat  and  gazed 
up  into  the  face  of  her  mother,  whose  tears  bore  witness  to 
the  deep  anguish  of  her  soul.  The  silence  was  interrupted 
by  the  rising  of  the  latter,  who  for  a  few  moments  paced  t!i° 
room,  and  then  sank  helplessly  into  a  chair.  The  attenti  \  o 
child  sprang  to  her  relief,  a  few  neighbors  were  called  in. 
she  was  laid  upon  her  be*d.  That  night  a  severe  attack  oi 
fever  came  upon  her ;  for  many  days  her  life  was  despaired 
of;  but  at  length  a  ray  of  hope  cheered  the  solitude  of  the 
chamber  of  the  sick,  and  at  the  close  of  six  weeks  her  health 
was  in  a  great  degree  restored. 

''Time  heals  all  wounds,"  is  a  common  saying,  true  in 
some  cases,  but  not  in  all.  Some  wounds  there  are  that  sink 
deep  in  the  heart, —  their  pain  even  time  cannot  remedy,  but 
stretch  far  into  eternity,  and  find  their  solace  there.  Others 
there  are  which  by  time  are  partially  healed ;  —  such  was  that 
of  Mrs.  Lang.  During  her  sickness,  many  of  the  little  inci 
dents  that  before  had  troubled  her  passed  from  her  mind. 
She  now  yielded  submissively  to  her  sad  allotment,  believ 
ing,  as  during  her  sickness  she  had  often  been  told,  that 
9 


14  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

afflictions  come  but  for  our  own  good,  however  paradoxical 
such  a  statement  might  seem  to  be. 

The  kindness  of  a  neighbor  enabled  her,  with  her  daugh 
ter,  to  remove  their  place  of  residence.  This  neighbor  —  a 
lady  of  moderate  pecuniary  circumstances  —  furnished  them 
with  needle-work,  the  compensation  for  which  enabled 
them  to  obtain  supplies  necessary  for  a  comfortable  living. 

CHAPTER   II. 

For  some  time  Mr.  Henry  Lang  sat  with  his  head  resting 
upon  his  hands,  and  with  them  upon  the  table.  Deep  silence 
prevailed,  broken  only,  at  lengthy  intervals,  by  the  loud  laugh 
following  the  merry  jest  of  some  passer-by,  or  the  dismal 
creaking  of  the  swing-sign  of  an  adjacent  tavern. 

How  long  Mr.  Lang  might  have  remained  in  that  position 
is  not  for  us  to  determine.  But  it  would  have  been  much 
longer,  had  not  a  loud  rap  at  the  outer  door  awakened  him 
from  his  drowsy  condition. 

He  started  at  the  sound,  and,  taking  in  his  hand  a  dim- 
burning  candle,  proceeded  to  answer  the  call.  Opening  the 
door,  a  man  closely  enveloped  in  a  large  cloak  and  seal-skin 
cap,  the  last  of  which  hung  slouchingly  about  his  head  and 
face,  inquired,  in  a  gruff,  ill-mannered  voice,  whether  a  person 
unfavorably  known  to  the  police  as  "  Bold  Bill"  had  been 
there.  Harry  trembled,  knowing  his  interrogator  to  be  one 
of  the  city  watch  ;  yet  he  endeavored  to  conceal  his  fears  and 
embarrassment  by  a  forced  smile,  and  remarked  : 

"  That  is  indeed  a  strange  name,  and  one  of  which  I  have 
never  before  heard.  Tell  me  what  he  has  been  about." 

"  Why  do  you  think  he  has  been  about  anything,  or  why 
think  you  I  am  acquainted  with  his  actions  ?  "  inquired  the 
stranger,  in  a  stern  voice,  as  though  the  supreme  majesty  of 
the  law  represented  by  him  was  not  to  be  spoken  lightly  of. 


SAVED    BY    KINDNESS.  15 

His  scrutinizing  features  relaxed  not  in  the  least,  but  he 
looked  our  hero  steadfastly  in  the  face. 

"  By  the  appearance  of  your  dress  I  judge  you  to  be  a 
watchman,  and  as  such  I  suppose  you  to  be  in  search  of  that 
odd-named  person  on  account  of  his  being  suspected  of  having 
broken  the  law." 

"  You  are  right,"  answered  the  officer.  "  I  am  a  watch 
man  !  The  authority  invested  in  me  is  great.  I  trust  I 
duly  appreciate  it.  I  guard  your  dAvelling  when  you  are 
slumbering,  unconscious  of  what  takes  place  around  you." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  remarked  Harry,  suddenly  inter 
rupting  him,  and  speaking  rather  ironically  than  otherwise. 

The  watchman  continued  :  "  Life  is  to  me  nothing  unless 
I  can  employ  it  in  doing  good.  Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"Will  you  walk  in?"  inquired  Mr.  Lang,  as  a  sudden 
gust  of  wind  nearly  extinguished  his  light. 

"No,  I  thank  you;  that  would  be  of  no  service  to  my 
fellow-men ;  and,  as  I  am  in  search  of  the  man  who  com 
mitted  the  robbery,  ten  minutes  ago,  upon  Mr.  Solomon  Cash, 
the  broker,  I  must " 

' '  Robbery  ! ' '  exclaimed  Harry,  appearing  perfectly  aston 
ished  at  the  thought.  "  0,  the  degeneracy  of  the  nineteenth 
century, —  the  sinfulness  of  the  age  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  responded  the  officer  ;  and,  pulling  his  large, 
loose  cloak  more  closely  about  him,  he  made  a  motion  to  con 
tinue  on  in  the  service  of  his  fellow-men. 

"  But  wait,  nry  good  man,"  said  Harry.  "  Am  I  to  sup 
pose,  from  what  you  said,  that  '  Bold  Bill '  is  the  perpetrator 
of  this  base  crime?" 

"Precisely  so,"  was  the  laconic  reply;  and  the  man 
moved  on  in  execution  of  his  benevolent  designs. 

"  He  should  be  brought  to  justice,"  said  Harry,  as  he 
turned  to  enter.  No  sooner,  however,  had  he  closed  the  door, 


16  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

than  he  burst  forth  in  a  loud  laugh.  This  was  soon  changed 
to  seriousness,  for  he  became  confident  that  his  friend  Bill 
was  in  danger.  To  shield  him,  if  guilty,  from  detection,  and 
protect  him,  if  innocent,  was  now  his  great  object.  But 
where  should  he  find  him  ?  That  was  a  problem  he  qould  not 
solve.  The  boy  was  sleeping  soundly ;  he  must  awaken  him, 
he  must  go  out  in  search  of  his  friend. 

With  this  intention,  he  dressed  himself  in  a  stout,  heavy 
ovi-reoat,  and,  locking  the  door  hurriedly,  walked  up  the 
;.  On  he  went,  as  though  his  life  depended  upon 
whether  he  reached  a  certain  square  at  a  certain  timo.  He 
looked  at  nothing  save  some  far-distant  object,  from  which, 
as  it  approached,  he  withdrew  his  eyes,  and  fixed  them  on  an 
object  yet  distant.  Turning  a  corner,  a  collision  took  place 
between  him  and  another  man,  who  appeared  to  be  in  as  much 
haste  as  himself.  He  was  about  to  proceed,  when  he  who 
had  met  him  so  abruptly  struck  him  very  familiarly  upon 
the  shoulder,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  "  Harry,  how  are  you  1 
—  good  luck  —  tin  —  lots  of  it  —  watch  —  haste." 

The  person  thus  addressed  was  not  long  in  discovering  who 
it  was  that  spoke  to  him,  and  from  his  words  and  actions 
that  he  had  reason  to  be  in  some  haste.  It  was  he  for 
whom  he  was  in  search  ;  and,  being  aware  that  the  nature  of 
the  case  demanded  despatch,  he  cordially  grasped  his  hand, 
and,  without  another  word  between  them,  they  in  a  short 
time  reached  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Lang. 

"  What  are  the  facts  now?  "  inquired  Harry,  after  having 
narrated  the  incident  that  had  occurred  since  he  left,  namely, 
the  watchman's  visit. 

"  Then  you  think  there  is  no  danger  in  my  staying  here  ?  " 
inquired  Bill. 

1  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Harry;  "  for  I  positively  as 
serted  that  you  was  not  here,  and  strongly  intimated  that 
I  knew  no  person  of  your  name.  Danger  !  there  is  none ; 
so  proceed,  friend  Bill, —  but  a  little  wine." 


SAVED    BY    KINDNESS.  17 

Wine  is  an  indispensable  with  all  rogues ;  it  nerves  to  law 
lessness,  and  induces  them,  when  under  its  influence,  to 
commit  acts  which  in  their  sober  moments  they  would  scorn 
to  perform. 

The  wine-glass  emptied,  Bill  proceeded  in  his  narrative. 

"  When  I  left  here,  I  started  intending  in  a  direct  course 
to  go  home.  Musingly  I  walked  along,  cursing  my  fate, 
and  several  other  things,  too  numerous  to  mention,  and  spec 
ulating  upon  the  probable  success  of  our  scheme,  till  I  ar 
rived  in  front  of  the  old  broker's.  He  was  just  putting  up 
his  iron-clamped  shutters.  I  was  on  the  opposite  side,  at 
some  distance,  yet  not  so  far  but  that  I  plainly  saw  him 
enter  and  pack  snugly  away  in  his  little  black  trunk  divers 
articles  of  apparently  great  worth.  I  carelessly  jingled  the 
last  change  in  my  pocket,  of  value  about  a  dollar  or  so ; 
and  the  thought  of  soon  being  minus  cash  nerved  me  to  the 
determination  of  robbing  the  broker.  Thus  resolved.  I  hid 
myself  behind  a  pile  of  boxes  that  seemed  placed  there  on 
purpose,  till  I  heard  the  bolt"  spring,  and  saw  the  broker, 
with  the  trunk  beneath  his  arm,  walk  aAvay.  As  he  entered 
that  dark  passage,  'Fogg-lane,'  I  pulled  my  cap  down  over 
my  face,  and  dogged  him,  keeping  the  middle  of  the  passage ; 
and,  seeing  a  favorable  opportunity,  I  sprang  upon  him  from 
behind,  and  snatched  the  box  ;  then  left  him  to  his  fate. 

"  I  ran  off  as  fast  as  my  legs,  urged  on  by  the  cry  of 
'  stop  thief,'  would  carry  me.  Notwithstanding  the  speed 
at  which  I  ran,  I  found  the  crowd  bearing  down  upon  me ; 
and,  my  hope  almost  failing,  I  had  resolved  to  give  in  and 
suffer  the  consequences,  when,  seeing  a  dark  lane,  I  ran  into 
it,  then  dodged  behind  a  pump.  The  crowd  ran  on  ;  I  found 
I  had  escaped.  Now,  Harry,  a  friendly  shake  in  honor  of 
my  good  luck." 

'•  As  you  say,"   answered   Harry,   "'and  it  is  my  humble 
opinion  you  are  not  entirely  free  from  change." 
2* 


18  TOWN    AM)    COUNTRY. 

"  Hi-ally.  I  larry,  I  don't  know  what  the  box  contains  ;  how 
ever,  ;t  is  confounded  heavy.  It  is  full  of  gold  or  iron." 

"My  ta«v  fora  scrubber,  if  small  change  is  n't  pretty 

much  the  contents ;  the  fourpences  and  dimes  lie  pretty  near 

-.her,  friend  Bill."     "But,"    continued  Hairy,  "'tis 

to  secrete  yourself,  box  and  all,  till  the  law  dogs  are 

silenced.  If  they  come  here,  I  will  throw  them  a  bone  ;  but 

lurk!—" 

The  two  remained  silent ;  for  the  sound  of  approaching 
tepe  momentarily  grew  more  distinct.  It  sounded 
nearer,  and  now  was  in  front  of  the  door. 

"  To  the  closet,"  whispered  Harry;  and  in  a  moment  Mr. 
:  was  the  only  occupant  of  the  room.  He  was  right  in  his 
supposition ;  for  the  door  opened,  and  the  same  man,  in  the 
same  cloak,  with  the  same  consequential  air,  accompanied  by 
others,  entered  abruptly,  and  interrogated  Harry  rather 
closely.  "Positively,  I  know  nothing  about  him,"  said  Mr. 
Lang.  This  declaration  seemed  to  have  a  wonderful  effect  upon 
each  of  the  officers.  They  gazed  steadfastly  at  him,  then  at 
each  other,  and  their  features  indicated  their  belief  in  what 
he  said. 

"  Benevolent  as  I  am,"  said  the  officer,  "  I  must  require 
a  strict  search ;  —  not  that  we  suspect  him  to  be  on  your  prem 
ises,  noble  sir,  but  my  duty  demands  it." 

The  officer,  having  thus  far  declared  what  he  thought  to 
be  his  duty,  proceeded  to  its  performance  by  pushing  open 
the  doors  through  which  egress  could  be  had  to  the  street, 
and  all  others.  As  chance  would  have  it,  the  right  door 
was  by  them  unobserved.  But  where  was  the  fugitive  1 
"••  1  •••'''  been  hurried  into  a  closet.  It  was  not  after  the 
manner  of  most  closets.  It  was  about  three  feet  square,  at 
one  side  of  which  was  a  door  communicating  with  the  cel 
lar,  through  which  any  person  might  pass,  and  from  thence 
into  the  street.  He  could  not  stand  long  and  listen  to  the 


SAVED   BY   KINDNESS.  19 

loud  converse  of  those  without.  He  felt  himself  in  danger 
if  he  remained,  and  determined  upon  leaving  the  closet.  So, 
having  passed  into  the  cellar,  he  entered  the  street. 

The  night  was  dark  ;  the  hour  late,  and  no  persons  stir 
ring.  Softly  he  crept  beneath  the  window,  and,  perceiving 
none  in  the  room  but  Harry,  softly  tapped  the  glass.  Mr. 
Lang  raised  his  arm,  by  which  signal  Bill  understood  that  he 
was  aware  of  his  having  left  the  closet.  Then  through  back 
lanes,  seldom  pedestrianated,  and  narrow  passages,  he  wended 
his  way,  with  his  stolen  treasure  closely  held  beneath  the 
loose  folds  of  his  jacket.  He  passed  on,  till,  reaching  a  dark 
street,  he  beheld  a>dim  light  in  a  low  oyster-cellar ;  he  en 
tered.  A  black  fellow  was  the  proprietor,  cook,  &c.  Bill 
asked  for  lodgings. 

"  Well,  massa,  dem  I  'ave  ;  but  I  always  take  pay  in  ad 
vance  from  gemmen." 

Bill  asked  the  price. 

"  Wall,  'tis  fourpance  on  a  chest,  and  threepance  on  de 
floor." 

Mr.  Bang  availed  himself  of  the  best  accommodations,  and 
accepted  the  chest.  He  stretched  himself  upon  it,  having 
settled  the  bill,  but  slept  little.  His  mind  was  continually 
roaming.  Now  he  imagined  himself  in  the  closet,  with 
scarcely  room  to  breathe,  and  an  officer's  hand  on  the  latch  ; 
now  groping  along  untraversed  paths,  till,  falling  into  some 
hole,  he  awoke  from  his  re  very. 

'T  was  near  the  dawn  of  day  when,  from  his  house,  accom 
panied  by  the  boy,  Mr.  Lang  passed  out  in  search  of  Bill. 
A  light  rain  was  falling,  and  in  perspective  he  saw  a  dull, 
drizzly  sort  of  a  day, —  a  bad  air  for  a  low-spirited  individ 
ual.  The  "  blues"  are  contagious  on  such  a  day.  Yet  he 
strove  to  keep  his  spirits  up,  and  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
job. 

As  he  passed  by  the  office  of  the  broker,  he  perceived  a 


20  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

crowd,  and  many  anxious  inquiries  were  heard  respecting  the 
robbery.  It  appeared  the  broker  had  received  but  1  ittle  inj  ury , 
and  was  as  busy  as  any  one  in  endeavoring  to  find  out  the 
ro^ue.  Ilarry  put  on  as  bold  a  face  as  possible,  and  inquired 
of  the  broker  the  circumstances,  which  he  very  minutely 
narrated. 

"  Have  you  any  suspicions  of  any  one  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 

"  Of  no  one,"  was  the  brief  response. 

"  It  would  be  very  sad  if  the  rascal  could  not  be  found," 
continued  Mr.  Lang.  "  The  gallows  is  too  good  for  one  who 
would  make  such  a  cowardly  attack,  and  treat  with  such 
baseness  one  who  never  harmed  his  fellow." 

"  I  am  of  your  opinion,"  answered  the  broker;  and  the 
two,  having  thus  fully  expressed  their  opinion,  parted. 

Mr.  Lang  was  not  much  troubled  in  finding  his  compan 
ion.  He  entered  the  cellar  just  as  the  latter  had  arisen 
from  his  chesty  couch,  and  a  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand  bore 
witness  that  friends  had  met. 

Both  were  aware  that  the  place  in  which  they  were  was 
not  of  very  good  repute,  and  made  all  possible  haste  to  re 
move.  But,  to  effect  this  successfully,  it  was  necessary  that 
Mr.  Lang  should  have  a  change  of  dress. 

1I<  was  making  this  change  when  half  a  dozen  men  unex 
pectedly  entered.  "  You  are  my  prisoner,"  said  one,  catch 
ing  bold  of  Mr.  Lang  by  the  coat-collar.  "Tropes,  secure 
the  other." 

They  were  now  both  in  custody,  and  the  officers,  after  a 
little  search,  discovered  the  broken  box,  and  arrested  the 
Mai-k  man. 

"  For  what  am  I  arrested?  "  inquired  Mr. Lang. 

"  That  you  will  soon  know,"  was  the  reply. 

"  But  I  demand  an  answer  now.  I  will  not  move  a  step 
till  I  get  it." 


SAVED   BY  KINDNESS.  21 

"  What !  what 's  that?  "  said  a  stout,  rough-looking  man, 
striking  the  prisoner,  and  treating  him  more  like  a  dog  than 
what  he  was. 

"I  demand  an  answer  \o  my  inquiry.  For  what  am  I 
arrested?  " 

"  He  's  a  dangerous  man,"  remarked  another  of  the  offi 
cers  ;  "  it  's  best  to  put  him  in  irons  ;  "  whereupon  he  drew 
from  a  capacious  pocket  a  pair  of  rusty  manacles.  Mr. 
Lang,  and  his  two  fellows  in  trouble,  found  it  best  to  coolly 
submit,  and  did  so.  Five  minutes  passed,  and  the  cold 
walls  of  a  prison  enclosed  them. 

CHAPTER     III. 

Daylight  breaks,  and  the  dwellers  upon  a  thousand  hills 
rejoice  in  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun. 

' '  Didst  thou  ever  hear  that  promise,  '  God  will  provide '  ? 
inquired  a  pale,  yet  beautiful  girl,  as  she  bent  over  the  form 
of  a  feverish  woman,  in  a  small,  yet  neatly-furnished  room. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply;  "  and  he  who  allows  not  a  spar 
row  to  fall  unnoticed,  shall  he  not  much  more  care  for  us  ? 
Yes,  Julia,  God  will  provide.  My  soul,  trust  thou  in  God  !  " 

It  was  Mrs.  Lang.  The  good  lady  who  had  befriended  her 
was  suddenly  taken  ill,  and  as  suddenly  died.  Mrs.  Lang,  with 
her  daughter,  left  the  house,  and,  hiring  a  small  room  at  an  ex 
orbitant  rent,  endeavored,  by  the  use  of  her  needle,  to  live. 
She  labored  hard  ;  the  morning's  first  light  found  her  at  her 
task,  and  midnight's  silent  hour  often  found  her  there.  The 
daughter  too  was  there ;  together  they  labored,  and  together 
shared  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  a  worse  than  widowed  and 
orphaned  state.  Naturally  of  a  feeble  constitution,  Mrs.  Lang 
could  not  long  bear  up  under  that  labor,  and  fell.  Then 
that  daughter  was  as  a  ministering  angel,  attending  and 
watching  over  her,  and  anticipating  her  every  want.  Long 


22  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

was  she  obliged  to  labor  to  provide  the  necessaries  of  life  ; 
often  working  hard,  and  receiving  but  ten  to  fifteen  cents  a, 
day  for  that  which,  if  paid  for  as  it  should  be,  would  have 
brought  her  a  dollar.  It  was  after  receiving  her  small  pit 
tance  and  having  returned  to  her  home,  that  the  words  at 
the  commencement  of  this  chapter  fell  from  her  lips.  Her 
mother,  with  deep  solicitude,  inquired  her  success. 

"  He  says  he  can  get  those  duck  trousers  made  for  three 
cents,  and  that,  if  I  will  not  make  them  for  that,  he  can 
give  me  no  more  work.  You  know,  mother,  that  I  work 
eighteen  hours  of  the  twenty- four,  and  can  but  just  make 
two  pair, —  that  would  be  but  six  cents  a  day." 

"  My  child,"  said  the  mother,  rising  with  unusual  strength, 
"  refuse  such  a  slavish  offer.  Let  him  not,  in  order  to  enrich 
himself,  by  degrees  take  your  life.  Death's  arrows  have 
now  near  reached  you.  Do  not  thus  wear  out  your  life.  Let 
us  die !  " 

She  would  have  said  more ;  but,  exhausted  by  the  effort, 
she  sank  back  upon  her  pillow.  Then  came  the  inquiry, 
"  Didst  thou  ever  hear  that  promise,  c  God  will  provide  '  ?  " 

The  question  had  been  put,  and  the  answer  given,  when 
a  slight  rap  at  the  door  was  heard.  Julia  opened  it ;  a  small 
package  was  hastily  thrust  into  her  hand,  and  the  bearer  of 
it  hasted  away.  It  was  a  white  packet,  bound  with  white 
ribbon,  and  with  these  words,  "Julia  Lang,"  legibly  writ 
ten  upon  it.  She  opened  it ;  a  note  fell  upon  the  floor  ;  she 
picked  it  up,  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  Enclosed  you  will  find  four  five-dollar  bills.  You  are 
in  want ;  use  them,  and,  when  gone,  the  same  unknown  hand 
\\ill  ^rantyou  more. 

"  Let  me  break  now  a  secret  to  you  which  I  believe  it  is 
my  duty  to  divulge.  You  will  recollect  that  your  father 
mysteriously  abandoned  you.  He  is  now  in  this  city,  in 


SAVED    BY   KINDNESS.  23 

street  jail,  awaiting  his  trial.  I  am  confident  that  he  is  in 
nocent,  and  will  be  honorably  acquitted  ;  and  I  am  as  confident 
that  it  needs  but  your  presence  and  your  kind  entreaty  to 
bring  him  back  once  again  to  his  family  and  friends.  I  have 
spoken  to  him,  but  my  Avords  have  had  no  efiect  except  when 
I  spoke  of  his  family.  Then  I  could  see  how  hard  he  strove 
to  conceal  a  tear,  and  that  I  had  found  a  tender  chord,  that 
needed  but  your  touch  to  cause  it  to  work  out  a  reformatory 
resolution. 

•'  I  write  because  Mr.  Lang  was  a  friend  of  mine  in  his  days 
of  prosperity.  I  know  he  has  no  heart  for  dishonesty ;  but, 
thinking  himself  deserted  by  those  who  should  cling  to  him, 
he  madly  resolved  to  give  himself  up,  and  follow  where  fate 
should  lead.  Yours,  truly, 

"  CHARLES  B •-. 

"  N.  B.  Others  have  also  spoken  with  him;  but  their 
appeals  have  been  in  vain.  If  you  will  be  at  the  corner  of 

L avenue  and  W street,  at  three  o'clock  to-day,  a 

carriage  will  be  in  readiness  to  convey  you  to  his  pres 
ence.  C.  B." 

Anxiously  did  Mrs.  Lang  watch  the  features  of  her  child  as 
she  stood  perusing  .the  letter ;  and  as  she  sat  down  with  it 
unfolded,  apparently  in  deep  thought,  her  inquisitiveriess  in 
creased.  She  inquired  —  she  was  told  all.  "  Go,"  said  she 
to  her  daughter,  "  and  may  the  blessings  of  Heaven  attend 
you  !  " 

Julia  stood  wondering.  She  had  doubted  before ;  she 
feared  it  might  be  the  scheme  of  some  base  intriguer ;  but 
now  her  doubts  vanished,  and  hope  cheered  her  on. 

Long  seemed  the  intervening  hours,  and  many  were  the 
predictions  made  concerning  the  success  of  her  mission ; 
yet  she  determined  to  go,  in  the  spirit  of  Martin  Luther, 


24  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

though  every  stone  in  the  prison  should  arise  to  perse 
cute  her.  • 

The  appointed  hour  came,  and,  letter  in  hand,  she  left 
her  room,  and  repaired  to  the  spot.  There  she  found  a  car 
riage  ;  and  the  driver,  who,  it  appeared,  was  acquainted  with 

her,  inquired  whether  she  desired  to  go  to street  jail. 

Replying  in  the  affirmative,  she  entered,  and  the  carriage 
drove  off.  When  she  had  reached  the  street,  and  came  in 
full  view  of  the  prison,  her  timidity  almost  overcame  her ; 
but,  recollecting  the  object  she  had  in  view,  she  resisted  a 
desire  that  involuntarily  arose  to  return. 

"Is  the  warden  in?"  inquired  the  driver  of  the  gate 
keeper. 

"  He  is  ;  —  another  feast  for  the  lion,  eh  1 "  and  the  keeper, 
who  had  more  self-assurance  than  manners,  having  laughed 
at  his  own  nonsense,  pulled  a  bell-cord,  and  the  warden 
appeared. 

"  The  gentleman  who  came  this  morning  to  see  Mr.  Lang 
wished  me  to  bring  this  young  lady  here,  and  introduce  her 
to  you  as  Mr.  Lang's  daughter."  Having  said  this,  the  hack- 
man  let  down  the  steps,  and  aided  her  out.  The  gate-keeper 
retired  into  a  sort  of  sentry-box,  and  amused  himself  by 
peeping  over  the  window-curtain,  laughing  very  immode 
rately  when  anything  serious  was  said,  and  sustaining  a  very 
grave  appearance  when  anything  having  a  shade  of  comical 
ity  occurred. 

The  warden  very  politely  conducted  Julia  into  his  office, 
and  soon  after  into  the  jail.  It  was  a  long  building  inside 
of  a  building,  with  two  rows  of  cells  one  above  the  other, 
each  numbered,  and  upon  each  door  a  card,  upon  which  was 
written,  in  characters  only  known  to  the  officers  of  the  prison, 
the  prisoner's  name,  crime,  term  of  imprisonment,  and  gen 
eral  conduct  whilst  confined. 

Ao  Mr.  Lang  was  waiting  trial,  he  was  not  in  one  of  these 


SAVED   BY  KINDNESS.  25 

cells,  but  in  one  of  large  dimensions,  and  containing  more 
conveniences. 

As  they  entered,  he  was  seated  at  a  small  table,  with  pen, 
ink  and  paper,  engaged  in  writing.  He  did  not  at  first  rec 
ognize  his  child,  but  in  a  moment  sprang  to  her,  and  clasp 
ing  her  in  his  arms,  said,  "My  child." 

Such  a  change  in  him  needs  some  explanation. 

After  being  committed  to  prison,  his  first  thought  was 
upon  the  change  of  his  condition  from  what  it  formerly  was ; 
and  his  first  resolution  was  to  reform.  He  thought  of  the 
deep  plots  he  and  his  companion  had  laid  to  amass  a  fortune  ; 
but,  supposing  that  the  latter  would  be  convicted,  and  con 
demned  to  serve  a  long  time  in  confinement,  he  concluded 
that  that  scheme  was  exploded. 

"Yet,"  thought  he,  "if  there  be  none  on  earth  I  can  call  my 
friends, —  if  my  family  forsake  me  (yet  just  would  it  be  in  them 
should  they  reject  my  company),  —  of  what  avail  would  my 
reformation  be,  except  to  a  few  dogging  creditors,  who  would 
jeer  and  scoff  at  me  at  every  corner,  and  attempt  to  drive  me 
back  to  my  present  situation  ?  It  might  be  some  satisfaction  to 
them  to  see  me  return ;  but  what  feelings  would  it  arouse 
within  me. —  with  what  hatred  would  I  view  mankind  ! 
No ;  if  none  will  utter  a  kind  word  to  me,  let  me  con 
tinue  on ;  let  the  prison  be  my  home,  and  the  gallows  my 
end,  rather  than  attempt  to  reform  while  those  who  were 
once  my  friends  stand  around  to  drive  me  back  by  scofiing 
remarks !  " 

Such  were  the  sincere  thoughts  of  Mr.  Lang.  He 
would  return,  but  none  stood  by  to  welcome  him.  A  few 
had  visited  him,  most  of  whom  had  severely  reflected  upon 
his  misdeeds.  They  opened  a  dark  prospect  for  him  in  the 
future.  "  Now,"  said  they,  "  you  must  here  remain;  re 
ceive  retribution  for  your  evil  deeds,  and  a  sad  warning  to 
others  not  to  follow  in  your  steps,  lest  they  arrive  at  the 
3 


•V,  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

same  goal."  Was  there  encouragement  in  this  1  Surely 
not ;  he  deemed  them  not  the  words  of  friendship,  and  he 
was  right  in  his  judgment. 

"Why  did  you  visit  this  dark  prison?"  inquired  Mr. 
Lang. 

"  Because  you  are  here,  father  !  "  was  the  artless  reply. 

"  And  could  you  forgive  your  father  ?  How  could  you 
seek  him,  when  he  forsook  you?"  Mr.  Lang  could  not 
make  this  last  observation  without  becoming  affected  even  to 
tears. 

Julia  seemed  to  take  courage ;  new  energies  seemed  to  be 
imparted  to  her.  She  felt  an  unseen  influence  at  her  side, 
and  a  holy  calmness  resting  upon  her  soul. 

"  Prison-walls  cannot  bar  you  from  my  heart,  though  in 
the  worst  place  on  earth.  Though  friends  laugh  me  to  scorn 
when  I  seek  your  presence,  you  are  my  .father  still,  and  un 
grateful  would  I  be  did  I  not  own  you  as  such  ! 

"  In  thinking  of  the  present,  I  do  not  forget  the  past;  I 
remember  the  days  of  old,  the  years  in  which  we  were  made 
glad ;  —  and  you,  father,  when  free  from  these  walls,  will  you 
not  return  again  to  your  family,  and  make  home  what  it  once 
was  ?  To-day  I  will  see  Mr.  Legrange ;  he  wants  a  clerk, 
and,  by  a  little  persuasion,  I  am  certain  I  can  get  you  the 
situation.  Will  you  not  reform?  " 

She  could  say  no  more ;  yet  her  actions  spoke  louder  than 
words  could  possibly  do,  and  her  imploring  attitude  went 
home  to  the  heart  of  her  parent.  He,  for  the  first  time  since 
the  commencement  of  his  wayward  course,  felt  that  the  hand 
of  sympathy  was  extended  to  greet  him,  should  he  make  a 
motion  to  return.  And  why  should  he  not  grasp  it  ?  He 
did.  There,  in  that  prison-cell,  upon  his  knees,  he  promised 
to  repent  and  return. 

"  Pleasant  residence,  Miss  ! "  said  the  gate-keeper,  as  our 
heroine  left  the  yard,  and  then  laughed  as  though  he  had 


SAVED  BY  KINDNESS.  27 

committed  a  pun  that  would  immortalize  him  from  that  time 
forth. 

She  noticed  not  his  ill-mannered  remark,  but,  reentering 
the  carriage,  thought  of  nothing  but  the  joy  her  mother 
would  feel  upon  learning  her  success,  till  the  carriage 
stopped  and  the  driver  let  down  the  steps.  Having  related 
her  adventure,  she  left  her  home  with  the  intention  of  seeing 
Mr.  Legrange. 

Mr,  Legrange  was  a  merchant  on  Cadiz  wharf;  he  was 
wealthy,  and  as  benevolent  as  wealthy.  Notices  were  often 
seen  in  the  papers  of  large  donations  from  him  to  worthy  insti 
tutions,  sometimes  one  and  sometimes  three  thousand  dollars. 
His  fellow-men  looked  upon  him  as  a  blessing  to  the  age. 
There  was  no  aristocracy  in  him ;  he  did  not  live  like  a 
prince  in  the  costliest  house  in  the  city,  but  a  small,  neat 
tenement  was  pointed  out  as  his  abode.  Not  only  was  he 
called  the  "Poor  Man's  Friend,"  but  his  associate  and 
companion.  He  did  not  despise  the  poor  man,  and  wisely 
thought  that  to  do  him  good  he  must  live  and  be  upon  an 
equality  with  him. 

Mr;  Legrange  had  just  opened  an  evening  paper,  when  a 
light  rap  at  his  counting-house  door  induced  him  to  lay  it 
aside.  Opening  it,  a  young  woman  inquired  if  Mr.  Legrange 
was  in. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  was  the  reply.  "  Good-morning, 
Miss  Lang." 

Julia  was  rejoiced  that  she  was  recognized.  She  had  not 
spoken  to  Mr.  Legrange  since  her  father's  failure  in  busi 
ness  ;  previous  to  that  sad  occurrence  she  had  known  him 
personally,  yet  she  scarcely  thought  he  would  know  her 
now. 

"  This  is  a  lovely  day,"  said  Mr.  Legrange,  handing  her 
a  chair.  "  Your  mother  is  well,  I  hope." 

"As  well  as  might  be  expected:  she  will  recover  fast, 
now." 


28  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

"  Indeed  !     What  ?     Some  glad  news  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  father  is  in  the  city,  and  has  reformed." 

"  Thank  God  for  that !  "  said  Mr.  Legrange.  "  It  is  one 
of  the  blessings  of  this  life  to  hope  for  better  days." 

"  He  has  reformed,"  continued  Miss  Lang,  "  yet  he  may 
be  led  back  unless  he  gets  steady  employment ;  and  I  heard 
that " 

" that  I  want  a  clerk,"  said  Mr.  Legrange,  antici 
pating  her  in  htr  remarks ;  "  and,"  continued  he,  "your 
father  is  just  the  man  I  want.  I  knew  him  in  his  better 
days,  before  a  fatal  misstep  felled  him  to  the  ground.  Miss 
Lang,  let  your  father  call  next  Tuesday  ;  to-morrow  I  start 
on  a  journey,  and  shall  not  return  till  then." 

With  many  sincere  thanks,  Julia  left  the  room ;  her  heart 
overflowed  with  gratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  things.  -  She 
saw  his  hand  and  felt  his  presence. 

It  was  well  that  Mr.  Legrange  was  about  to  leave  the 
city,  as  Mr.  Lang's  examination  was  to  be  had  the  next  day, 
and  Mrs.  Lang  and  her  daughter  confidently  expected  he 
would  be  acquitted. 

The  morrow  came ;  the  examination  began  and  termi 
nated  as  they  had  expected.  William  Bang  was  remanded 
back  to  prison  to  await  his  trial  for  robbery.  Mr.  Lang  was 
•acquitted,  and.  joining  a  company  of  friends  whom  Julia  had 
collected,  left  for  the  residence  of  his  family. 

What  a  meeting  was  .that !  Angels  could  but  weep  for 
joy  at  such  a  scene,  and  drop  their  golden  harps  to  wipe 
away  their  tears  of  gladness.  Long  had  been  their  separa 
tion.  What  scenes  had  the  interval  disclosed !  And  how 
changed  were  all  things  !  She  was  in  health  when  he  left, 
but  now  in  sickness ;  yet  it  was  not  strange. 

That  day  was  the  happiest  he  had  spent  for  many  months, 
and  he  rejoiced  that  an  angel  of  light,  his  daughter,  had 
sought  him  out.  She  had  been,  indeed,  a  ministering  spirit 


SAVED   BY   KINDNESS.  29 

of  good  to  him,  and  in  the  happy  scene  then  around  her  she 
found  her  reward, —  0,  how  abundant ! 

With  a  light  and  joyous  step  did  Henry  Lang  repair  to 
the  store  of  Mr.  Legrange.  The  sun's  rays  were  just  peer 
ing  over  the  house-tops,  and  he  thought  that  he,  like  that 
sun,  was  just  rising  from  degradation  to  assume  new  life,  and 
put  forth  new  energy. 

We  need  not  lengthen  out  our  tale  by  narrating  what 
there  ensued.  He  that  day  commenced  his  clerkship,  and  to 
this  day  holds  it.  He  often  received  liberal  donations  from 
his  employer  in  token  of  his  regard  for  him,  and  by  way  of 
encouraging  him  in  his  attempts  to  regain  his  lost  fortune. 

It  was  on  a  December  evening  that  a  family  circle  had 
gathered  around  their  fireside.  The  wild  wind  whistled  furi 
ously  around,  and  many  a  poor  wight  lamented  the  hard  fate 
that  led  him  abroad  to  battle  the  storm.  "  Two  years  ago 
this  night,"  said  the  "man,  "  where  was  I?  In  an  obscure 
house,  planning  out  a  way  to  injure  a  fellow-man  !  Yea, 
would  you  believe  it  ?  the  very  man  who  has  since  been  my 
benefactor, —  my  employer !  " 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  the  conversation  was  abruptly  ter 
minated. 

In  a  few  minutes  none  other  than  Mr.  Legrange  entered  ; 
he  received  a  hearty  welcome,  and  Was  soon  engaged  in  con 
versation. 

"  Mr.  Lang,"  said  he,  as  he  was  about  to  depart,  "your 
daughter  remembers  receiving  an  anonymous  letter  signed 
'  Charles  B .'  I  do  not  say  it  to  please  my  own  van 
ity,  but  I  ordered  my  clerk  to  write  it,  and  sent  it  by  my  son. 
I  thought  of  you  when  you  little  thought  you  had  a  friend 
on  earth  who  cared  for  you,  and  rejoice  that  I  have  been  the 
humble  instrument  in  effecting  your  reformation." 
3* 

* :;     •". 


80  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

""Here,"  he  continued,  handing  him  a  paper,  "this  is 
the  deed  of  a  house  on street,  valued  at  eight  thou 
sand  dollars ;  accept  it  as  a  present  from  me  to  you  and  your 
family,  and  remember  this,  that  a  kind  word  is  of  more 
value  than  gold  or  precious  stones.  It  was  that  which 
saved  you,  and  by  that  you  may  save  others.  Good-even 
ing;  I  will  see  you  at  the  store  to-morrow." 

Having  said  this,  he  left,  waiting  not  to  receive  the  thanks 
that  grateful  hearts  desired  to  render  him. 

And  now,  reader,  our  story  is  ended.  If  you  have  fol 
lowed  us  thus  far,  neglect  not  to  receive  what  we  have  faintly 
endeavored  to  inculcate ;  and  ever  remember,  while  treading 
life's  thorny  vale,  that  "  a  kind  word  is  of  more  value 
than  gold  or  jirecious  stones." 


THE   LOVE   OF  ELINORE. 

Sip  stood  beside  the  sea-shore  "weeping, 
While  above  her  stars  were  keeping 

Vigils  o'er  the  silent  deep ; 
While  all  others,  wearied,  slumbered, 
She  the  passing  moments  numbered, 

She  a  faithful  watch  did  keep. 

Him  she  loved  had  long  departed, 
And  she  wandered,  broken-hearted, 

Breathing  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 
Friends  did  gather  round  to  win  her, 
But  the  thoughts  that  glowed  within  her 

Were  to  her  most  fond  and  dear. 

In  her  hand  she  held  bright  flowers, 
Culled  from  Nature's  fairest  bowers  ; 

On  her  brow,  from  moor  and  heath, 
Bright  green  leaves  and  flowers  did  cluster, 
Borrowing  resplendent  lustre 

From  the  eyes  that  shone  beneath. 

Rose  the  whisper,  "  She  is  crazy," 
When  she  plucked  the  blooming  daisy, 

Braiding  it  within  her  hair  ; 
But  they  knew  not  what  of  gladness 
Mingled  with  her  notes  of  sadness, 

As  she  laid  it  gently  there. 

For  her  loved  one,  ere  he  started, 
While  she  still  was  happy-hearted, 
Clipped  a  daisy  from  its  stem, 


32  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

Placed  it  in  her  hair,  and  told  her, 
Till  again  he  should  behold  her, 
That  should  be  her  diadem. 

At  the  sea-side  she  was  roaming, 
When  the  waves  were  madly  foaming, 

And  when  all  was  calm  and  mild, 
Singing  songs,  —  she  thought  he  listened, 
And  each  dancing  wave  that  glistened 

Loved  she  as  a  little  child. 

For  she  thought,  in  every  motion 
Of  the  ceaseless,  moving  ocean, 

She  could  see  a  friendly  hand 
Stretched  towards  the  shore  imploring, 
Where  she  stood,  like  one  adoring, 

Beckoning  to  a  better  land. 

When  the  sun  was  brightly  shining, 
When  the  daylight  was  declining, 

On  the  shore  she  'd  watch  and  wait, 
Like  an  angel,  heaven-descending, 
'Mid  the  ranks  of  mortals  wending, 

Searching  for  a  missing  mate. 

Years  passed  on,  and  when  the  morning 
Of  a  summer's  day  gave  warning 

Of  the  sweets  it  held  in  store, 
By  the  dancing  waves  surrounded, 
Like  a  fairy  one  she  bounded 

To  her  lover's  arms  once  more. 

Villagers  thus  tell  the  story, 
And  they  say  a  light  of  glory 

Hovereth  above  the  spot 
Where  for  days  and  years  she  waited, 
With  a  love  all  unabated, 

And  a  faith  that  faltered  not. 

There  'e  a  stone  that  is  uplifted, 
Where  the  wild  sea-flowers  have  drifted ; 
Fonder  words  no  stone  e'er  bore  ; 


'TIS    SWEET    TO    BE    REMEMBERED.  33 

And  the  waves  come  up  to  greet  them, 
Seeming  often  to  repeat  them, 

While  afar  their  echoes  roar  — 

"  DEATHLESS  LOVE  OF  ELINORE." 


'T  is  sweet  to  be  remembered 

In  the  turmoil  of  this  life, 
While  toiling  up  its  pathway, 

While  mingling  in  its  strife, 
While  wandering  o'er  earth's  borders, 

Or  sailing  o'er  its  sea,  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  be  remembered 

Wherever  we  may  be. 

What  though  our  path  be  rugged, 

Though  clouded  be  our  sky, 
And  none  we  love  and  cherish, 

No  friendly  one  is  nigh, 
To  cheer  us  in  our  sorrow, 

Or  share  with  us  our  lot,  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  be  remembered, 

To  know  we  're  not  forgot. 

When  those  we  love  are  absent 

From  our  hearth-stone  and  our  side, 
With  joy  we  learn  that  pleasure 

And  peace  with  them  abide ; 
And  that,  although  we  're  absent, 

We  're  thought  of  day  by  day ;  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  be  remembered 

By  those  who  are  away. 


84  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

When  all  our  toils  arc  ended, 

The  conflict  all  is  done, 
And  peace,  in  sweetest  accents, 

Proclaims  the  victory  won  ; 
When  hushed  is  all  the  tumult, 

When  calmed  is  all  the  strife, 
And  we,  in  patience,  meekly 

Await  the  end  of  life : 

Then  they  who,  when  not  present, 

In  spirit  yet  were  near, 
And,  as  we  toiled  and  struggled, 

Did  whisper  in  our  ear, 
"  'Tis  sweet  to  be  remembered, 

And  thou  art  not  forgot," 
If  fortune  smile  upon  us, 

Shall  share  our  happy  lot. 


I   CALL  THEE  MINE. 

YES,  ever  such  I  '11  call  thee,  will  ever  call  thee  mine, 
And  with  the  love  I  bear  thee  a  wreath  of  poesy  twine  ; 
And  when  the  stars  are  shining  in  their  bright  home  of  blue, 
Gazing  on  them,  thou  mayest  know  that  I  like  them  are  true. 

Forget  thee  !  no,  0,  never !  thy  heart  and  mine  are  one. 
How  can  the  man  who  sees  its  light  forget  the  noonday  sun? 
Or  he  who  feels  ita  genial  warmth  forget  the  orb  above ; 
Or,  feeling  sweet  affection's  power,  ita  source  —  another's  love? 

Go,  ask  the  child  that  slecpeth  upon  its  mother's  breast 
Whether  it  loves  the  pillow  on  which  its  head  doth  rest  ; 
Go,  ask  the  weary  mariner,  when  the  dangerous  voyage  is  o'er, 
Whether  he  loves  the  parent's  smile  that  meets  him  at  the  door : 

But  ask  not  if  I  love  thee  when  I  would  call  thee  mine, 
For  words  are  weak  to  tell  thee  all,  and  I  the  task  resign  ; 
But  send  thy  spirit  out  for  love,  and  when  it  finds  its  goal, 
'T  will  be  encircled  and  embraced  within  my  deepest  soul. 


THE   OLD  TREE  AND   ITS   LESSON. 

THERE  is  a  story  about  that  old  tree  ;  a  biography  of 
that  old  gnarled  trunk  and  those  broad-spread  branches. 

Listen. 

Many,  very  many  years  ago. —  there  were  forests  then 
where  now  are  cities,  and  the  Indian  song  was  borne  on  that 
breeze  which  now  bears  the  sound  of  the  Sabbath  bell,  and 
where  the  fire  of  the  work-shop  sends  up  its  dense,  black 
smoke,  the  white  cloud  from  the  Indian's  wigwam  arose, — 
yes,  't  was  many  years  ago,  when,  by  the  door  of  a  rough, 
rude,  but  serviceable  dwelling,  a  little  boy  sat  on  an  old 
man's  knee.  He  was  a  bright  youth,  with  soft  blue  eyes, 
from  which  his  soul  looked  out  and  smiled,  and  hair  so  beau 
tiful  that  it  seemed  to  be  a  dancing  sunbeam  rather  than 
what  it  really  was. 

The  old  man  had  been  telling  him  of  the  past ;  had  been 
telling  him  that  when  he  was  a  child  he  loved*  the  forest,  and 
the  rock,  and  the  mountain  stream. 

Then  he  handed  the  lad  a  small,  very  small  seed,  and, 
leading  him  a  short  distance,  bade  him  make  a  small  hole  in 
the  ground  and  place  the  seed  within  it.  He  did  so.  And 
the  old  man  bent  over  and  kissed  his  fair  brow  as  he  smoothed 
the  earth  above  the  seed's  resting-place,  and  told  him  that  he 
must  water  it  and  watch  it,  and  it  would  spring  up  and 
become  a  fair  thing  in  his  sight. 

'T  was  hard  for  the  child  to  believe  this;  yet  he  did 
believe,  for  he  knew  that  his  friend  was  true. 

Night  came ;  and,  as  he  lay  on  his  little  couch,  the  child 


36  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

dreamed  of  that  seed,  and  he  had  a  vision  of  the  future  which 
passed  with  the  shades  of  the  night. 

Morning  dawned,  and  he  hastened  to  water  and  to  watch 
the  spot  where  the  seed  was  planted. 

It  had  not  come  up ;  yet  he  believed  the  good  old  man, 
and  knew  that  it  would. 

All  day  long  he  was  bending  over  it,  or  talking  with  his 
aged  companion  about  the  buried  seed. 

A  few  days  passed,  then  a  little  sprout  burst  from  the 
ground ;  and  the  child  clapped  his  hands,  and  shouted  and 
danced. 

Daily  it  grew  fairer  .in  the  sight  of  the  child,  and  rose 
higher  and  higher.  And  the  old  man  led  him  once  more  to 
the  spot,  and  told  him  that  even  so  would  the  body  of  his 
little  sister  rise  from  the  grave  in  which  a  short  time  before 
it  had  been  placed,  and,  rising  higher  and  higher,  it  would 
never  cease  to  ascend. 

The  old  man  wept ;  but  the  child,  with  his  tiny  white 
hand,  brushed  away  his  tears,  and,  with  child-like  simplicity, 
said  that  if  his  sister  arose  she  would  go  to  God,  for  God  was 
above. 

Then  the  mourner's  heart  was  strengthened,  and  the  lesson 
he  would  have  taught  the  child  came  from  the  child  to  him, 
and  made  his  soul  glad. 

A  few  weeks  passed,  and  the  old  man  died. 

The  child  wept ;  but,  remembering  the  good  friend's  les 
son,  he  wiped  away  his  tears,  and  wept  no  more ;  for  the 
seed  had  already  become  a  beautiful  plant,  and  every  day  it 
went  upward,  and  he  knew  that,  like  that,  his  sister  and  his 
good  friend  would  go  higher  and  higher  towards  God. 


Days,  weeks,  months,  years  passed  away.     The  plant  had 
grown  till  it  was  taller  than  he  who  had  planted  it. 


THE   OLD   TREE   AND   ITS  LESSOR.  37 

Years  fled.  The  child  was  no  more  there,  but  a  young 
man  sat  beneath  the  shade  of  a  tree,  and  held  a  maiden's 
hand  in  his  own. ,  Her  head  reclined  on  his  breast,  and  her 
eyes  upturned  met  the  glances  of  his  towards  her,  and  they 
blended  in  one. 

':  I  remember,'1  said  he,  "  that  when  I  was  young  a  good 
old  man,  who  is  now- in  heaven,  led  me  to  this  spot,  and  bade 
me  put  a  little  seed  in  the  earth.  I  did  so.  I  watched  the 
ground  that  held  it,  and  soon  it  sprang  up,  touched  by  no 
hand,  drawn  forth,  as  it  would  seern,  from  its  dark  prison  by 
the  attractive  power  of  the  bright  heaven  that  shone  above  it. 
See,  now,  what  it  has  become  !  It  shades  and  shelters  us. 
God  planted  in  my  heart  a  little  seed.  None  but  he  could 
plant  it,  for  from  him  only  emanates  true  love.  It  sprang 
up,  drawn  forth  by  the  sunlight  of  thy  soul,  till  now  thou 
art  shadowed  and  sheltered  by  it." 

There  was  silence,  save  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  as  the 
branches  bowed  assent  to  the  young  man's  words. 


Time  drove  his  chariot  on;  his  sickle-wheels  smote  to 
>arth  many  brave  and  strong,  yet  the  tree  stood.  The  winds 
)lew  fiercely  among  its  branches ;  the  lightning  danced  and 
luivered  above  and  around  it ;  the  thunder  muttered  forth 
ts  threatenings ;  the  torrent  washed  about  its  roots ;  yet  it 
tood,  grew  strong  and  stately,  and  many  a  heart  loved  it 
•  >r  its  beauty  and  its  shade. 

The  roll  of  the  drum  sounded,  and  beneath  a  tree  gathered 
.•owds  of  stalwart  men.  There  was  the  mechanic,  with 
oturned  sleeves  and  dusty  apron ;  the  farmer,  fanning 
mself  with  a  dingy  straw  hat ;  the  professional  man  and 
ader,  arguing  the  unrighteousness  of  "  taxation  without 
^presentation." 

Another  roll  of  the  drum,  and  every  head  was  uncovered 
i  a  young  man  ascended  a  platform  erected  beneath  the  tree. 
4 


88  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

In  a  soft,  low  voice,  he  began.  As  he  proceeded,  his  voice 
grew  louder,  and  his  eloquence  entranced  his  auditors. 

"Years  ago,"  said  he,  "there  were  an  old  man  and  a 
young  child.  And  the  child  loved  the  man,  and  the  man 
loved  the  child,  and  taught  him  a  lesson.  He  took  him  by 
the  hand,  and,  leading  him  aside,  gave  him  a  seed  and  told 
him  to  plant  it.  He  did  so.  It  sprang  up.  It  became 
mighty.  Independent  it  stood,  sheltering  all  who  came  untc 
it.  That  old  man  went  home;  but  here  stands  the  child, 
and  here  the  tree,  great  and  mighty  now,  but  the  child  has 
not  forgotten  the  day  when  it  was  small  and  weak.  So  shall 
the  cause  we  have  this  day  espoused  go  on ;  and  though, 
to-day,  we  may  be  few  and  feeble,  we  shall  increase  and 
grow  strong,  till  we  become  an  independent  nation,  that  shall 
shelter  all  who  come  unto  it." 

The  speaker  ceased,  and  immediately  the  air  resounded 
with  loud  shouts  and  huzzas. 

The  struggle  for  independence  came.  Victory  ensued, 
Peace  rested  once  more  upon  all  the  land,  but  not  as  before, 
It  rested  upon  a  free  people.  Then,  beneath  that-same  tree, 
gathered  a  mighty  host;  and,  as  oft  as  came  the  second 
month  of  summer,  in  the  early  part  of  it  the  people  there 
assembled,  and  thanked  God  for  the  lesson  of  the  old  tree. 


An  old  man  lay  dying.  Around  his  bedside  were  his 
children  and  his  children's  children. 

"Remove  the  curtain,"  said  he.  "Open  the  window. 
Raise  me,  and  let  me  see  the  sun  once  more." 

They  did  so. 

"  See  you  yonder  tree?  Look  upon  it,  and  listen.  I  was 
a  child  once,  and  I  knew  and  loved  an  old  man  ;  and  he  knew 
me  and  loved  me,  and  he  led  me  aside,  placed  in  my  hand  a 
tiny  seed,  and  bade  me  bury  it  in  the  earth,  and  I  did  so. 
Night  came,  with  its  shade  and  its  dew ;  day,  with  its  sun- 


THE    OLD    TREE    AND    ITS   LESSON.  39 

shine  and  its  showers.  -  And  the  setd  sprang  up, —  but  the 
old  man  died.  Yet,  ere  he  Trent,  he  had  taught  me  the  les 
son  of  that  seed,  which  was,  that  those  who  go  down  to  the 
earth  like  that,  will  arise,  like  that,  towards  heaven.  You 
are  Igoking  upon  that  tree  which  my  friend  planted.  Learn 
from  it  the  lesson  it  hath  taught  me." 

The  old  man's  task  was  performed,  his  life  finished,  and 
the  morrow's  light  lit  the  pathway  of  many  to  his  grave. 
They  stood  beneath  the  shadow  of  that  tree;  and  deeply 
sank*  the  truth  in  every  heart  as  the  village  pastor  began  the 
burial  service  and  read,  "I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life." 


VOICES  FROM   THE   SPIRIT-LAND 

IN  the  silence  of  the  midnight, 

When  the  cares  of  day  are  o'er, 
In  my  soul  I  hear  the  voices 

Of  the  loved  ones  gone  before ; 
And  they,  words  of  comfort  whispering, 

Say  they  '11  watch  on  every  hand, 
And  my  soul  is  cheered  in  hearing 

Voices  from  the  spirit-land.  + 

In  my  wanderings,  oft  there  cometh 

Suddfe  stillness  to  my  soul  ; 
When  around,  above,  within  it 

Rapturous  joys  unnumbered  roll. 
Though  around  me  all  is  tumult, 

Noise  and  strife  on  every  hand, 
Yet  within  my  soul  I  list  to 

Voices  from  the  spirit-land. 

Loved  ones  who  have  gone  before  mo 

Whisper  words  of  peace  and  joy ; 
Those  who  long  since  have  departed 

Tell  me  their  divine  employ 
Is  to  watch  and  guard  my  footsteps,  — 

O  !  it  is  an  angel  band  ! 
And  I  love,  I  love  to  list  to 

Voices  from  the  spirit-land. 


THE  BEACON-LIGHT. 

DIMLY  burns  the  beacon-light 

Qn  the  mountain  top  to-night ; 

Faint  as  Avhisper  ever  fell, 

Falls  the  watcher's  cry,  —  "  All's  well ;  " 

For  the  clouds  have  met  on  high, 

And  the  blast  sweeps  angry  by  ; 

Not  a  star  is  seen  this  night,  — 

God,  preserve  the  beacon-light ! 

Lo  !  a  man  whom  age  doth  bow 
Wanders  up  the  pathway  now  ; 
Wistfully  his  eye  he  tur 
To  the  light  that  dimly  bi 
And,  as  it  less  glow  doth  shed. 
Quicker,  quicker  is  his  tread  ; 
And  he  prays  that  through  the  night 
God  may  keep  the  beacon-light. 

Far  below  him,  rocks  and  waves 
Mark  the  place  of  others'  graves  ; 
Other  travellers,  who,  like  him, 
Saw  the  beacon-light  burn  dim. 
But  they  trusted  in  their  strength 
To  attain  the  goal  at  length  ;  — 
This  old  traveller  prays,  to-night, 
"  God,  preserve  the  beacon-light!  " 

Fainter,  fainter  is  its  ray,  — 
ShaH  its  last  gleam  pass  away  ? 
Shall  it  be  extinguished  quite  ? 
Shall  it  ffurn,  though  not  as  bright  ? 
Fervently  goes  up  his  prayer  ; 
Patiently  he  waiteth  there, 
Trusting  Him  who  doeth  right 
To  preserve  the  beacon-light. 

4* 


42  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

Look  you  DOW  !  the  light  hath  burst 
Brighter  than  it  was  at  first ; 
Now  with  ten-fold  radiance  glows, 
And  the  traveller  homeward  goes. 
As  the  clouds  grow  darker  o'er  him, 
Brighter  grows  the  light  before  him  ; 
God,  who  doeth  all  things  right, 
Hath  preserved  the  beacon-light. 

Thus  upon  the  path  we  tread 
God  a  guiding  light  hath  shed ; 
Though  at  times  our  hearts  are  weary, 
Though  the  path  we  tread  is  dreary, 
'  Though  the  beacon's  lingering  ray 
Seems  as  if  't  would  pass  away,  — 
Be  our  prayer,  through  all  the  night, 
"  God,  preserve  the  beacon-light !" 

ThrealRng  clouds  may  gather  o'er  us, 

Countless  dangers  rise  before  us  : 

If  in  God  we  seek  for  strength, 

He  will  succor  us  at  length  : 

He  his  holy  light  will  send, 

To  conduct  us  to  the  end. 

Trust  thy  God,  through  day  and  night, 

He  '11  preserve  thy  beacon-light. 


BEAR  UP. 

BEAR  op,  bear  up,  though  Poverty  may  press  thee  , 

There 's  not  a  flower  that 's  crushed  that  does  not  shed, 
While  bowing  low,  its  fragrance  fortH  to  bless  thee, 
At  times,  more  sweet  than  when  it  raised  its  head  ; 
When  sunlight  gathered  round  it, 
When  dews  of  even  crowned  it, 
By  nature  nursed,  and  watched,  and  from  iw  bounty  fed 


A    WELCOME  TO    SPRING.  43 

Bear  up,  bear  up  !  O,  never  yield  nor  falter ! 

God  reigneth  ever,  merciful  and  just ; 
If  thou  despairest,  go  thou  to  his  altar, 
Rest  on  his  arm,  and  in  hi* promise  trust. 
There  Hope,  bright  Hope,  will  meet  thee  ; 
There  Joy,  bright  Joy,  shall  greet  thee  ; 
And  thou  shalt  rise  to  thrones  on  high  from  out  the  dust. 


A  WELCOME   SONG  TO   SPRING, 

SHOUT  a  welcoming  to  Spring  ! 

Hail  its  early  buds  and  flowers  ! 
It  is  hastening  on  to  bring 

Unto  us  its  joyous  hours. 
Birds  on  bough  and  brake  are  singing, 
All  the  new-clad  woods  are  ringing ; 
In  the  brook,  see  Nature  flinging 

Beauties  of  a  thousand  dyes, 
As  if  jealous  of  the  beauties 

Mantling  the  skies. 

Hail  to  Beauty  !     Hail  to  Mirth  ! 

All  Creation's  song  is  gladness  ; 
Not  a  creature  dwells  on  earth 

God  would  have  bowed  down  in  sadness ! 
Everything  this  truth  is  preaching, 
God  in  all  his  works  is  teaching, 
As  if  man  by  them  beseeching 

To  be  glad,  for  he  doth  bless  ; 

And  to  trust  him,  for  he 's  mighty 

In  his  tenderness. 


THE   HOPE   OF  THE   FALLEN. 

CHAPTER     I. 

IT  was  at  the  close  of  a  beautiful  autumnal  day  that  Ed 
ward  Dayton  was  to  leave  the  place  of  his  nativity.  For 
many  years  he  had  looked  forward,  in  joyous  anticipation,  to 
the  time  when  he  should  repair  to  the  city,  and  enter  upon 
the  business  of  life.  And  now  that  that  long  looked-for 
and  wished-for  day  had  arrived,  when  he  was  to  bid  an  adieu 
to  the  companions  of  his  youth,  and  to  all  the  scenes  of  his 
childhood,  it  was  well  for  him  to  cast  a  retrospective  glance  ; 
and  so  he  did. 

Not  far  distant,  rearing  its  clear  white  steeple  far  above 
the  trees,  stood  the  village  church,  up  the  broad,  uncar- 
peted  aisle  of  which  he  had  scores  of  times  passed ;  and,  as 
the  thought  that  he  might  never  again  enter  those  sacred 
walls  came  to  his  mind,  a  tear  glistened  in  his  eye  that  he 
could  not  rudely  wipe  away. 

Next  was  the  cot  of  the  pastor.  He  had  grown  old  in 
the  service  of  his  Master,  and  the  frosts  of  nearly  three-score 
winters  rested  their  glory  upon  his  head.  All  loved  and  re 
spected  him,  for  with  them  he  had  wept,  and  with  them  he 
had  rejoiced.  Many  had  fallen  around  him  ;  withered  age 
and  blooming  youth  he  had  followed  to  the  grave ;  yet  he 
stood  forth  yet,  and,  with  clear  and  musical  voice,  preached 
the  truths  of  God. 

An  old  gray  building,  upon  whose  walls  the  idler's  knife 
had  carved  many  a  rude  inscription,  was  the  village  school. 


THE    HOPE    OF   THE    FALLEN.  45 

There,  amid  those  carvings,  were  seen  the  rough-hewn  ini 
tials,  of  many  a  man  now  "  well-to-do  in  the  world."  Some, 
high  above  the  rest,  seemed  as  captains,  and  almost  over 
shadowed  the  diminutive  ones  of  the  little  school-boy,  placed 
scarce  thirty  inches  from  the  ground. 

Edward  was  a  pet  among  the  villagers.  He  had  taken  the 
lead  in  all  the  frolickings,  and  ma*y  a  bright-eyed  lass 
would  miss  his  presence,  and  loud,  clear  laugh,  at  the  com 
ing  "  huskings." 

"  Young  and  old  reluctantly  bade  him  "good-by,"  and,  as 
the  stage  wound  its  circuitous  way  from  the  village,  from 
many  a  heart  ascended  a  prayer  that  He  who  ruleth  over  all 
would  prosper  and  protect  him. 

"  Good  luck  to  him.  God  bless  him  !  "  said  dame  Brandon, 
as  she  entered  the  house.  "  He  was  always  a  kind,  well- 
meant  lad,"  she  continued,  "and  dame  Brandon  knows  no 
evil  can  befall  him ;  and  Emily,  my  dear,  you  must  keep 
your  eye  on  some  of  the  best  fruit  of  the  orchard,  for  he 
will  be  delighted  with  it,  and  much  the  more  so  if  he  knows 
your  bright  eyes  watched  its  growth  and  your  hands  gath 
ered  it:" 

These  words  were  addressed  to  a  girl  of  seventeen,  who 
stood  at  an  open  window,  in  quite  a  pensive  mood.  She 
seemed  not  to  hear  the  remark,  but  gazed  in  the  direction 
the  stage  had  passed. 

The  parents  of  Edward  had  died  when  he  was  quite 
young,  and  he.  their  only  child,  had  been  left  to  the  care 
and  protection  of  dame  Brandon ;  and  well  had  she  cared  for 
him,  and  been  .as  a  mother  to  the  motherless. 

"  Now,  Emi',  don't  fret!  Edward  won't  forget  you.  I've 
known  him  long ;  he  has  got  a  heart  as  true  as  steel." 

'T  was  not  this  that  made  her  sad.  She  had  no  fears  that 
he  would  forget  his  Emi',  but  another  thought  pressed  heav 
ily  on  her  mind,  and  she  said, 


46  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

"  But,  aunty,  city  life  is  one  of  danger.  Temptations  are 
there  we  little  think  of,  and  stronger  hearts  than  Edward's 
have  quailed  beneath  their  power/' 

"  Well  done  !  "  quoth  Mrs.  B.,  looking  over  her  glasses; 
•  a  sermon,  indeed,  quite  good  for  little  you.  But  girls  are 
timid  creatures ;  they  start  and  are  frightened  at  the  least 
unusual  sound."  She  assumed  a  more  serious  manner,  and, 
raising  her  finger,  pointing  upwards,  said,  "But  know  you 
not  there  is  a  Power  greater  than  that  of  which  you  speak?  " 

Emily  seemed  to  be  cheered  by  this  thought.  She 
hummed  over  a  favorite  air,  and  repaired  to  the  performance 
of  her  evening  duties. 

Emily  Brandon  was  a  lovely  creature,  and  of  this  Ed 
ward  Dayton  was  well  aware.  He  had  spent  his  early  days 
with  her.  His  most  happy  hours  had  been  passed  in  her 
company.  Together  they  had  frolicked  over  the  green 
fields,  and  wandered  by  their  clear  streams.  Hours  passed 
as  minutes  when  in  each  other's  company ;  and,  when  sepa 
rated,  each  minute  seemed  an  hour. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  they  were  separated ;  and  ever 
and  anon,  as  she  passed  about  at  her  work,  she  cast  a  fitful 
glance  from  the  window,  as  if  it  were  possible  he  might 
return. 

How  she  wished  she  could  have  gone  with  him,  to  gently 
chide  when  sinners  should  entice,  and  lead  him  from  error's 
path,  should  gay  temptation  lure  him  therein !  She  was 
young  in  years,  yet  old  in  discretion ;  and  had  a  heart  that 
yearned  for  the  good  of  all. 

"  Well,  aunt,"  said  she,  "  I  hope  good  luck  will  betide  him, 
but  sad  thoughts  will  come  when  I  think  of  what  he  will 
have  to  bear  up  under." 

"  0,  hush  !  "  said  the  old  lady  ;  "  simple  girls  have  simple 
stories." 


THE   HOPE   OF   THE   FALLEN.  47 


CHAPTER    II. 

It  was  a  late  hour  in  the  evening  that  tke  coach  entered 
the  metropolis.  Railroads  were  not  then  in  vogue,  and 
large  baggage-waggons,  lumbering  teams  and  clumsy  coaches, 
were  drawn  by  two  or  more  horses,  over  deep-rutted  roads, 
and  almost  endless  turnpikes. 

The  bells  had  rang  their  nine  o'clock  peal ;  most  of  the 
stores  were  closed ;  the  busy  trader  and  industrious  mechanic 
had  gone  to  their  respective  homes,  and  left  their  property 
to  faithful  watchers,  whose  muffled  forms  moved  slowly 
through  the  streets  of  the  great  city. 

Not  all  had  left  their  work ;  for,  by  the  green  and  crim 
son  light  that  streamed  from  his  window,  and  served  to  par 
tially  dissipate  the  darkness,  it  was  seen  that  he  of  pestle 
and  mortar  labored  on,  or,  wearied  with  his  labor,  had  fallen 
asleep,  but  to  be  awakened  by  the  call  of  some  customer, 
requesting  an  antidote  for  one  of  the  many  "  ills  which  flesh 
is  heir  to." 

Other  open  places  there  were,  whose  appearance  indicated 
that  they  were  bar-rooms,  for  at  their  windows  stood  decan 
ters  filled  with  various- colored  liquids.  Near  each  of  these 
stood  a  wine-glass  in  an  inverted  position,  with  a  lemon  upon 
it ;  yet,  were  not  any  of  these  unmistakable  signs  to  be  seen, 
you  would  know  the  character  of  the  place  by  a  rumseller's 
reeling  sign,  that  made  its  exit,  and,  passing  a  few  steps,  fell 
into  the  gutter. 

In  addition  to  these  other  signs,  were  seen  scattered  about 
the  windows  of  these  places,  in  characters  so  large  that  he 
who  ran  might  read,  "Bar-room,"  "Egg-pop,"  "  N.  E. 
Rum,"  etc. 

Those  were  the  days  of  bar-room  simplicities.  "  Saloons  " 
were  not  then  known.  The  refined  names  which  men  of  the 
present  day  have  attached  to  rum,  gin  and  brandy,  were 


48  TOWN   ASD   COUXTRY. 

not  then  in  use.  There  were  no  "  Wormwood-floaters  "  to 
embitter  man's  life,  and  Jeirett  had  not  had  his  *:  fancy." 

The  coach  rolled  on.  and  in  a  short  time  Edward  was 
safely  ensconced  in  a  neatly-furnished  room  in  a  hotel  known 
as  "The  Boll's  Horn."  It  was  indeed  a  great  disadvantage 
to  him  that  he  came  to  a  city  in  which  he  was  a  total  stran 
ger.  He  had  no  acquaintance  to  greet  him  with  a  friendly 
welcome :  and  the  next  day.  as  he  was  jostled  by  the  crowd, 
and  pushed  aside  by  the  harried  pedestrian,  he  realised  what 
it  was  to  be  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  and  an  indescrib 
able  sensation  came  upon  him.  known  only  to  those  who 
hare  been  placed  in  similar  circumstances. 

He  looked  around, —  strange  forms  met  his  view.  No 
one  greeted  him.  no  hand  of  friendship  was  held  forth  to 
welcome  him.  All  the  world  seemed  rushing  on  for  some 
thing,  he  knew  not  what :  and,  disheartened  at  the  apparent 
selfishness  that  pervaded  society,  he  returned  to  his  room, 
and  wished  for  the  quietness  of  his  own  &weet  village,  the 
companionship  of  his  own  dear  Emi". 

The  landlord  of  the  tavern  at  which  our  hero  bad  housed 
himself  was  a  stout  burly  man,  and  quite  communicative. 
From  him  Edward  learned  much  of  importance.  Mr.  Blinge 
was  his  name.  He  was  an  inveterate  smoker,  and  his  pet 
was  a  little  black  pipe,  dingy  and  old.  and  by  not  a  few 
deemed  a  nuisance  to  "  The  Bull's  Horn."  This  he  held 
between  his  teeth,  and,  seating  himself  behind  his  bar,  puffed 
away  on  the  high-pressure  principle. 

Edward  had  not  been  many  minutes  in  hts  room  before 
Mr.  Blinge  entered  with  his  pet  in  his  month,  hoped  he 
did  n't  intrude,  apologized,  and  wished  him  to  walk  below, 
saying  that  by  so  doing  he  might  become  acquainted  with 
some  " rare  souls.-' 

By  "  below "  was  meant  a  large,  square  room,  on  the 
ground  floor,  of  dimensions  ample  enough  to  hold  a  caucus 


THE    HOPE    OF   THE   FALLEN.  49 

in.  By  some  it  was  called  a  "bar-room,"  by  others  the 
"  sitting-room,"  and  others  the.  "  gentlemen's  parlor." 

Entering,  Edward  encountered  the  gaze  of  about  twenty 
individuals.  Old  gentlemen  with  specs  looked  beneath 
them,  and  young  gentlemen  with  papers  looked  above  them. 
A  young  man  in  white  jacket  and  green  apron  was  endeav 
oring  to  satisfy  the  craving  appetites  of  two  teamsters,  who 
were  loudly  praising  the  landlord's  brandy,  and  cursing  the 
bad  state  of  the  roads  in  a  manner  worthy  of  "our  army 
in  Flanders." 

One  young  man,  in  particular,  attracted  the  attention  of 
our  hero.  He  was  genteelly  dressed,  and  possessed  an  air 
of  dignity  and  self-command,  that  would  obtain  for  him  at 
once  the  good  will  of  any.  Edward  was  half  inclined  to 
believe  his  circumstances  to  be  somewhat  similar  to  his  own. 
He  was  reading  an  evening  paper,  but,  on  seeing  our  hero 
enter,  and  judging  from  his  manner  that  he  was  a  stranger, 
laid  it  aside,  and,  politely  addressing  himself  to  him,  inquired 
after  his  health. 

The  introduction  over,  they  engaged  in  conversation.  The 
young  man 'seemed  pleased  in  making  his  acquaintance,  and 
expressed  a  hope  that  a  friendship  so  suddenly  formed  might 
prove  lasting  and  beneficial  to  each. 

"  I  also  am  from  the  country,"  said  he,  after  Edward  had 
informed  him  of  his  history,  '-'and,  like  you,  am  in  search 
of  employment.  Looking  over  the  evening  paper,  I  noticed 
an  advertisement  of  a  concern  for  sale,  which  I  thought,  as 
I  read,  would  be  a  capital  chance  to  make  a  fortune,  if  I 
could  find  some  one  to  invest  in  it  with  me.  I  will  read  it  to  you. 

• 

'  'FoR  SALE. — The  stock  and  stand  of  a  Confectioner,  with 
a  good  business,  well  established.     One  or  two  young  men  will 
find  this  a  rare  opportunity  to  invest  their  money  advan 
tageously.    For  other  particulars  inquire  at  No.  7  Cresto-st.' 
5 


50  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

"  Now,  I  tell  you  what,"  said  the  young  man,  before  Ed 
ward  had  an  opportunity  to  utter  a  word,  "it  is  a  fine 
chance.  Why,  Lagrange  makes  enough  on  his  wines  and 
fancy  cordials  to  clothe  and  feed  a  regiment.  Just  pass 
there,  some  evening,  and  you  will  see  a  perfect  rush.  Soda- 
water,  ice  creams,  and  French  wines,  are  all  the  rage,  and  La- 
grange  is  the  only  man  in  this  city  that  can  suit  the  bon  ton  !  " 

"  You  half  induce  me  to  go  there,"  said  Edward.  "  How 
far  is  it  from  this  place  ?  " 

"  Not  far,  but  it  is  too  late ;  to-morrow  morning  we  will 
go  there.  Here,  take  my  card  —  Othro  Treves  is  my  name ; 
you  must  have  known  my  father ;  a  member  of  Congress  for 
ten  years,  when  he  died ;  —  rather  abused  his  health  —  at 
tended  parties  at  the  capital  —  drank  wine  to  excess  —  took 
a  severe  cold  —  fell  ill  one  day,  worse  the  next,  sick  the 
next,  and  died  soon  after.  Wine  is  bad  when  excessively 
indulged  in;  so  is  every  good  thing." 

Edward  smiled  at  this  running  account  of  his  new-formed 
acquaintance,  and,  bidding  him  "good-night,"  betook  himself 
to* his  chamber,  intending  to  accompany  Othro  to  the  confec 
tioner's  hi  the  morning. 


CHAPTER     III. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  shone  bright  and  clear  in  a 
cloudless  sky,  and  all  were  made  joyous  by  its  gladsome  rays. 

Edward  was  awakened  at  an  early  hour  by  the  departure, 
or  preparations  to  depart,  of  the  two  teamsters,  who,  having 
patronized  rather  freely  the  young  man  in  white  jacket  and 
green  apron,  were  in  a  delightful  mood  to  fcnjoy  a  joke,  and 
were  making  themselves  quite  merry  as  they  harnessed  up 
their  sturdy  horses. 

It  was  near  nine  when  Othro  and  Edward  found  them 
selves  on  the  way  to  the  confectioner's.  Edward  was  glad 


THE  HOPE   OF  THE  FALLEN.  51 

on  account  of  finding  one  whom  he  thought  he  could  trust  as 
a  friend,  and  congratulated  himself  on  his  good  luck. 

Near  the  head  of  Cresto-street  might  have  been  seen,  not 
many  years  since,  over  the  door  of  a  large  and  fashionable 
store,  a  sign-board  bearing  this  inscription  :  "  M.  Lagrange, 
Confectioner  and  Dealer  in  Wines  and  Cordials."  We  say 
it  was  " large  and  fashionable;  "  and  those  of  our  readers 
who  recollect  the  place  of  which  we  speak  will  testify  to  the 
truth  of  our  assertion. 

Its  large  Avindows,  filled  with  jars  of  confectionary  and 
preserves,  and  with  richly-ornamented  bottles  of  wine,  with 
the  richest  pies  and  cake  strewed  around,  presented  a  showy 
and  inviting  appearance,  and  a  temptation  to  indulge,  too 
powerful  to  resist,  by  children  of  a  larger  growth  than  lisping 
infants  and  primary-school  boys.  Those  who  daily  passed 
this  store  looked  at  the  windows  most  wistfully ;  and  this  was 
not  all,  for,  at  their  weekly  reckonings,  they  found  that 
several  silver  "bits"  had  disappeared  very  mysteriously 
during  the  previous  seven  days. 

To  this  place  our  hero  and  his  newly-formed  acquaintance 
were  now  hastening.  As  they  drew  near,  quite  a  bevy  of 
ladies  made  their  exit  therefrom,  engaged  in  loud  conversation. 

"Lor!  "  said  one,  "it  is  strange  Lagrange  advertised  to 
sell  out." 

"Why,  if  I  was  his  wife,"  said  another,  "I'd  whip  him 
into  my  traces,  I  would;  an'  he  should  n't  sell  out  unless 
I  was  willin', —  no,  he  shouldn't!  Only  think,  Miss  Fitz- 
gabble,  how  handy  those  wines  would  be  when  one  has  a 
social  soul  step  in  !  " 

"  0,  yes,"  replied  Miss  Fitzgabble,  "and  those  jars  of 
lozenges  !  How  enchantingly  easy  to  elevate  the  lid  upon  a 
Sabbath  morn,  slip  in  one's  hand,  and  subtract  a  few  !  How 
I  should  smell  of  sassafras,  if  /  was  Mrs.  Lagrange  !  " 

The  ladies  passed  on,  and  were  soon  out  of  hearing.     Ed- 


52  TOWN   AND   COUNTKY. 

ward  and  his  companion  entered  the  store,  where  about  a 
dozen  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  seated,  discussing  the 
fashions,  forging  scandal,  and  sipping  wine. 

Mr.  Lagrange  was  actively  engaged  when  the  two  entered  ; 
but,  seeing  them,  and  supposing  them  to  have  called  on  the 
business  for  which  they  actually  had  called,  he  called  to  one 
of  the  attendants  to  fill  his  place,  and  entered  into  conversa 
tion  with  Messrs.  Dayton  and  Treves,  which  in  due  time 
was  terminated,  they  agreeing  to  call  again  the  next  day. 

First  impressions  are  generally  the  most  lasting.  Those 
Edward  and  Othro  received  during  their  visit  and  subse 
quent  conversation  were  favorable  to.  the  purchase. 

On  their  return  ^hey  consulted  together  for  a  long  time, 
and  finally  concluded  to  go  that  day,  instead  of  waiting  till 
the  next,  and  make  Mr.  Lagrange  an  offer  of  which  they  had 
no  doubt  he  would  accept. 

Mr.  Lagrange's  chief  object  in  selling  out  was  that  he 
might  disengage  himself  from  business.  He  had  been  a  long 
time  in  it ;  he  was  getting  somewhat  advanced  in  life,  and 
had  accumulated  sufficient  to  insure  him  against  want,  and 
he  deemed  it  best  to  step  out,  and  give  room  to  the  young  — 
an  example  worthy  of  general  imitation. 

That  the  business  was  profitable  there -could  be  no  doubt. 
As  Othro  had  said,  the  profit  on  the  wines  was  indeed 
immense. 

On  pleasant  evenings  the  store  was  crowded ;  and,  as  it 
was  filled  with  the  young,  gay,  and  fashionable  of  wealthy 
rank,  not  much  difficulty  was  experienced  in  obtaining  these 
large  profits. 

The  return  of  the  young  men  was  not  altogether  unex 
pected  by  Mr.  Lagrange.  He  was  ready  to  receive  them. 
He  set  before  them  his  best  wines.  They  drank  freely, 
praised  the  wine,  and  extolled  the  store,  for  they  thought  it 
admirably  calculated  to  make  a  fortune  in. 


THE   HOPE   OF   THE   FALLEN.  53 

Mr.  Lagrange  imparted  to  them  all  the  information  they 
desired.  They  made  him  an  offer,  which  he  accepted,  after 
some  thought ;  and  arrangements  were  entered  into  by  which 
Messrs.  Dayton  and  Treves  were  to  take  possession  on  the 
morning  of  the  following  Monday. 

CHAPTER     IV. 

No  one  commences  business  without  the  prospect  of  suc 
cess.  Assure  a  man  he  will  not  succeed,  and  he  will  be  cau 
tious  of  the  steps  he  takes,  if,  indeed,  he  takes  any. 

If  he  does  not  expect  to  gain  a  princely  fortune,  he  expects 
to  earn  a  comfortable  subsistence,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
accumulate  enough  to  shelter  him  in  a  rainy  day,  and  be 
enabled  to  walk  life's  busy  stage  in  comfort  and  respecta 
bility,  and,  as  occasion  may  demand,  relieve  the  wants  of  his 
less  fortunate  brethren. 

For  this  all  hope,  yet  the  experience  of  thousands  shows 
that  few,  very  few,  ever  realize  it.  On  the  contrary,  disap 
pointment,  in  its  thousand  malignant  forms,  starts  up  on 
every  hand ;  yet  they  struggle  on,  and  in  imagination  see 
more  prosperous  days  in  the  future.  Thus  they  hope  against 
hope.,  till  the  green  sod  covers  their  bodies,  and  they  leave  their 
places  to  others,  whilst  the  tale  is  told  in  these  few  words  : 
"  They  lived  and  died." 

The  next  Monday  the  citizens  were  notified,  by  the  removal 
of  his  old  sign,  that  Mr.  Lagrange  had  retired  from  business. 
During  the  day,  many  of  Mr.  Lagrange's  customers  came 
in,  that  they  might  become  acquainted  with  the  successors 
of  their  old  friend.  To  these  Messrs.  Dayton  and  Treves 
were  introduced,  and  from  them  received  promise  of  support. 

A  colored  man,  who  had  been  for  a  long  time  in  the 
employ  of  Mr.  Lagrange,  was  retained  in  the  employ  of  the 
store.  Ralph  Orton  was  his  name.  He  having  been  for  a 


54  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

long  time  in  the  store,  and  during  that  time  having  had  free 
access  to  the  wines,  had  formed  an  appetite  for  them,  in  con 
sequence  of  which  he  was  often  intoxicated. 

His  inebriation  was  periodical,  and  not  of  that  kind  whose 
subjects  are  held  in  continual  thraldom ;  yet,  to  use  his  own 
words,  "  when  he  was  drunk,  he  was  drunk,  and  no  mis 
take."  He  obeyed  the  old  injunction  of  "what  is  worth 
doing  is  worth  doing  well,"  and  as  long  as  he  got  drunk  he 
got  well  drunk. 

He  had  ofttimes  been  reasoned  with  in  his  day*  of  sober 
ness,  and  had  often  promised  to  reform  ;  but  so  many  around 
him  drank  that  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  drink 
also,  and  therefore  broke  his  promise.  This ,  habit  had  so 
fastened  itself  upon  him,  that,  like  one  in  the  coil  of  the  ser 
pent,  the  more  he  strove  to  escape  the  closer  it  held  him. 

If  thCTe  is  any  one  habit  to  which  if  a  man  becomes 
attached  he  will  find  more  difficulty  to  escape  from  than 
another,  it  is  that  of  intemperance  ;  yet  all  habits  are  so  one 
with  our  nature  that  the  care  taken  to  guard  against  the 
adoption  of  evil  ones  cannot  be  too  great. 

Behold  that  man  !  He  was  tempted, —  he  yielded.  He  has 
surrendered  a  noble  estate,  and  squandered  a  large  fortune. 
Once  he  had  riches  and  friends ;  his  eye  sparkled  with  the 
fire  of  ambition ;  hope  and  joy  beamed  in  each  feature  of  his 
manly  countenance,  and  all  bespoke  for  him  a  long  life  and 
happy  death.  Look  at  him  now !  without  a  penny  in  his 
pocket,  a  wretched  outcast,  almost  dead  with  starvation. 
Habit  worked  the  change  —  an  evil  habit. 

Perchance  some  one  in  pity  may  bestow  a  small  sum  upon 
him.  Utterly  regardless  of  the  fact  that  his  wife  and  chil 
dren  are  at  home  shivering  over  a  few  expiring  embers  that 
give  no  warmth,  without  a  crumb  to  appease  their  hunger, 
and  although  he  himself  a  moment  before  believed  that  if  aid 
did  not  come  speedily  he  must  perish,  he  hastens  to  the 


THE   HOPE   OF   THE   FALLEN.  55 

nearest  groggery,  and,  laying  down  his  money,  calls  for  that 
which  has  brought  upon  him  and  his  such  woe. 

If  there  is  any  scene  upon  earth  over  which  demons  joy,  it 
must  be  when  that  rumseller  takes  that  money. 

This  propensity  of  Ralph's  was  a  serious  objection  to  him 
as  a  servant;  yet,  in  every  other  respect,  he  was  all  that 
could  be  desired.  He  was  honest,  faithful  and  obliging,  and, 
knowing  as  they  did  that  he  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
trade  of  the  city,  and  could  go  directly  to  the  houses  of  Mr. 
Lagrange's  customers,  Messrs.  Dayton  and  Treves  were 
induced  to  have  him  remain. 

At  the  end  of  a  month,  Edward  found  himself  in  pros 
perous  circumstances,  and  wrote  to  his  old  village  friends  of 
the  fact.  They,  as  a  matter  in  course,  were  overjoyed  in 
the  reception  of  such  intelligence, 'and  no  one  more  so  than 
Emily  Lawton. 

Edward  had  entered  into  a  business  in  which  tempta 
tions  of  a  peculiar  nature  gathered  about  him.  Like  nearly 
every  one  in  those  days,  he  had  no  scruples  against  the  use 
of  wine.  He  thought  no  danger  was  associated  with  its  use ; 
and,  as  an  objection  against  that  would  clash  with  the  interests 
of  his  own  pecuniary  affairs,  he  would  be  the  last  to  raise  it. 

In  dealing  forth  to  others,  how  strong  came  the  temptation 
to  deal  it  to  himself !  Othro  drank,  and  pronounced  a  certain 
kind  of  wine  a  great  luxury.  Edward  could  not  (or,  at 
least,  so  he  thought)  do  otherwise  ;  and  so  he  drank,  and 
pronounced  the  same  judgment  upon  it. 

"What  say  you  for  an  evening  at  the  theatre?"  said 
Othro,  one  evening,  as  they  were  passing  from  their  place  of 
business,  having  left  it  in  care  of  their  servants.  "At  the 
Gladiate  the  play  is  '  Hamlet,'  and  Mr.  Figaro,  from  the  old 
Drury,  appears." 

Edward  had  been  educated  in  strict  puritanic  style,  and 
had  been  taught  to  consider  the  theatre  as  a  den  of  iniquity. 


56  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  defend  or  oppose  this  opinion.  It 
was  his,  and  he  freely  expressed  it.  In  fact,  his  partner 
knew  it  to  be  such  before  making  the  request. 

" I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Treves,  "you  oppose  the  theatre 
on  account  of  the  intoxicating  drinks  sold  there.  Now,  I  am 
for  a  social  drop  occasionally.  Edward,  a  glass  of  pure 
'Cogniac,'  a  nice  cigar,  and  a  seat  in  front  of  a  grate  of 
blazing  coal,  and  I  '11  be  joyful." 

"You  may  be  joyful,  then,"  replied  Mr.  Dayton;  "but 
your  joy  might  be  changed  to  grief,  and  your  buoyancy  of 
spirit  be  turned  to  sadness  of  heart." 

"  Indeed,  Edward  !  Quite  a  lecture,  I  declare  !  Been 
studying  theology,  eh?" 

"  Not  so;  you  are  mistaken,  Othro,"  said  he.  "  There," 
he  continued,  pointing  to  a  reeling  sot  that  passed  them, 
"  ask  that  man  where  he  first  went  for  joy,  and  he'may  tell 
you  of  the  theatre,  or  of  social  glasses  of  brandy,  cigars,  and 
such  like." 

They  had  now  arrived  in  front  of  the  "  Gladiate,"  a  mas 
sive  stone  structure,  most  brilliantly  illuminated.  Long 
rows  of  carriages  stood  in  front,  and  crowds  of  the  gay  and 
fashionable  were  flocking  in. 

All  was  activity.  Hackmen  snapped  their  whips.  Boys, 
ragged  and  dirty,  were  waiting  for  the  time  when  "  checks  " 
would  circulate,  and,  in  fact,  were  in  much  need  of  checks, 
but  those  of  a  different  nature  from  those  they  so  eagerly 
looked  for. 

Anon,  the  crowd  gathered  closer ;  and  the  prospect  of  a 
fight  put  the  boys  in  hysterics  of  delight,  and  their  rags  into 
great  commotion.  To  their  sorrow,  it  was  but  the  shadow  of 
a  "  row" ;  and  they  kicked  and  cuffed  each  other,  in  order  to 
express  their  grief. 

A  large  poster  announced  in  flaming  characters  that  that 
night  was  the  last  but  two  of  Mr.  Figaro's  appearance,  and 


THE    HOPE    OF   THE   FALLEN.  57 

that  other  engagements  would  prevent  him  from  prolonging 
his  staj,  however  much  the  public  might  desire  him  to  do  so ; 
whilst,  if  the  truth  had  been  told,  the  public  would  have 
known  that  a  printer  was  that  moment  "  working  off"  other 
posters,  announcing  a  reengagement  of  Mr.  Figaro  for  two 
weeks. 

"  Will  you  enter  ?  "  inquired  Othro.  Edward  desired  to 
be  excused,  and  they  parted ;  one  entering  the  theatre,  the 
other  repairing  to  his  home. 

CHAPTER     V. 

The  "  tavern  "  at  which  our  hero  boarded  was  of  the  coun 
try,  or,  rather,  the  colony  order  of  architecture, —  for  piece 
had  been  added  to  piece,  until  what  was  once  a  small  shed 
was  now  quite  an  extensive  edifice. 

As  was  the  case  with  all  taverns  in  those  days,  so  also  with 
this, —  the  bar-room  was  its  most  prominent  feature.  Mr. 
Blinge,  the  landlord,  not  only  smoked,  but  was  an  inveterate 
lover  of  raw  whiskey,  which  often  caused  him  to  perform 
strange  antics.  The  fact  that  he  loved  whiskey  was  not 
strange,  for  in  those  days  all  drank.  The  aged  drank  his 
morning,  noon  and  evening  potations,  because  he  had  always 
done  .so;  the  young,  because  his  father  did;  and  the  lisp 
ing  one  reached  forth  its  hands,  and  in  childish  accents  called 
for  the  "  thugar"  and  the  mother,  unwilling  to  deny  it  that 
which  she  believed  could  not  harm  it,  gave. 

Those  were  the  days  when  seed  was  being  sown,  and  now 
the  harvesting  is  in  progress.  Vain  were  it  for  us  to  attempt 
its  description ;  you  will  see  it  in  ruined  families,  where  are 
gathered  blasted  hopes,  withered  expectations,  and  pangs, 
deep  pangs  of  untold  sorrow. 

The  child  indulged  has  become  a  man,  yet  scarce  worthy 
of  the  name ;  for  a  habit  has  been  formed  that  has  sunken  him 


68  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

below  the  brute,  and  he  lives  not  a  help,  but  a«burden,  not  a 
blessing,  but  a  curse,  to  his  fellow-men. 

Although  Edward  was  opposed  to  the  use  of  intoxicating 
drinks,  his  business  led  him  to  associate  with  those  who  held 
opposite  opinions. 

Among  the  boarders  was  one,  a  bold,  drinking,  independ 
ent  sort  of  a  man,  who  went  against  all  innovations  upon  old 
customs  with  a  fury  worthy  of  a  subject  of  hydrophobia. 

His  name  was  "Pump."  Barrel,  or  bottle,  would  have 
been  more  in  accordance  with  his  character ;  but,  as  the  old 
Pump  had  not  foresight  enough  to-  sec  into  the  future,  he 
did  not  know  that  he  was  inappropriately  naming  his  son. 

Every  Pump  must  have  its  handle,  on  the  same  principle 
that  "every  dog  must  have  his  day."  The  handle  to  the 
Pump  in  question  was  a  long  one;  'twas  "  Onendago." 

"  Onendago  Pump  "  was  written  with  red  ink  on  the  blank 
leaf  of  a  "  Universal  Songster  "  he  carried  in  his  pocket. 

Dago,  as  he  was  called,  lived  on  appearances ;  that  is,  he 
acted  Ihe  gentleman  outwardly,  but  the  beggar  inwardly. 
He  robbed  his  stomach  to  clothe  his  back :  howbeit,  his  good 
outside  appearance  often  got  for  him  a  good  dinner. 

By  the  aid  of  the  tailor  and  the  barber,  he  wore  nice  cloth 
and  curled  hair;  and.  being  blessed  with  a  smooth,  oily 
voice,  was  enabled,  by  being  invited  to  dinner  here  and  to 
supper  there,  to  live  quite  easy. 

Edward  had  just  seated  himself,  when  a  loud  rap  on  the 
door  was  heard,  and  in  a  moment  Mr.  Onendago  Pump,  with 
two  bottles,  entered.  With  a  low  bow,  he  inquired  as  to 
our  hero's  health,  and  proposed  spending  an  evening  in  his 
company. 

"  Ever  hear  me  relate  an  incident  of  the  last  war  ?  "  said 
he,  as  he  seated  himself,  and  placed  his  two  bottles  upon  the 
side-table. 

"  Never,"  replied  Edward. 


THE   HOPE   OF  THE  FALLEN.  59 

"  Well,  Butler  waa  our  captain,  and  a  regular  man  he  ; 
right  up  and  down  good  fellow, —  better  man  never  held 
sword  or  gave  an  order.  Well,  we  were  quartered  at  —  I 
don't  remember  where  —  history  tells.  We  led  a  lazy  life ; 
no  red  coats  to  fire  at.  One  of  the  men  came  home,  one 
night,  three  sheets  in  the  wind,  and  the  fourth  bound  round 
his  head ;  awful  patriotic  was  he,  and  made  a  noise,  and 
swore  he  'd  shoot  every  man  for  the  good  of  his  country. 
Well,  Captain  Butler  heard  of  it,  and  the  next  day  all  hands 
were  called.  We  formed  a  ring ;  Simon  Twigg,  he  who  was 
drunk  the  day  before,  stood  within  it,  and  then  and  there 
Captain  Butler,  who  belonged  to  the  Humane  Society,  and 
never  ordered  a  man  to  be  flogged,  lectured  him  half  an  hour. 
Well,  that  lecture  did  Mr.  Dago  Pump  immense  good,  and 
ever  since  I  haven't  drank  anything  stronger  than  brandy. 

"  Never  a  man  died  of  brandy  !  "  said  Mr.  Pump,  with 
much  emphasis.  "  Brandy  's  the  word  !  "  and,  without  say 
ing  more,  he  produced  a  cork-screw,  and  with  it  opened  a 
bottle. 

A  couple  of  glasses  soon  made  their  appearance.  "  Now, 
you  will  take  a  glass  with  me,"  said  Dago;  "  it  is  the  pure 
Cogniac,  quality  one,  letter  A." 

"  Drink,  now,"  said  he,  pushing  a  glass  towards  him. 
"  Wine  is  used  by  the  temperance  society.  They  '11  use 
brandy  soon.  Ah,  they  can't  do  without  their  wine,  and 
we  can't  do  without  our  brandy  !  They  want  to  bind  us  in 
a  free  country,  what  my  father  bled  and  almost  died  for, — 
bind  us  to  drink  cold  water  !  "  said  Mr.  Pump,  sneeringly. 
"  Let  'em  try  it !  I  go  for  freedom  of  the  press, —  universal, 
everlasting,  unbounded  freedom  !  " 

When  this  patriotic  bubble  had  exploded  and  the  mist 
cleared  away,  he  sang  a  bacchanalian  song,  which  he  wished 
every  free  man  in  the  world  would  commit  to  memory. 
"  What  is  the  difference,"  said  he,  "between  this  and  wine? 


60  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

Neither  -will  hurt  a  man ;  it  is  your  rum-drinking,  gin-guz 
zling  topers  that  are  harmed ;  —  anything  -will  harm  them. 
Who  ever  heard  of  a  genteel  wine  or  brandy  drinker  becoming 
a  pest  to  society  1  Who  ever  heard  of  such  an  one  rolling  in 
the  mire  1  No ;  such  men  are  able  to  take  care  of  them 
selves.  Away  with  the  pledge  !  "• 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  replied  Edward ;  "  yet  we 
should  be  careful.  Although  all  around  me  drink,  I  have 
until  this  moment  abstained  from  the  use  of  brandy ;  but 
now,  at  your  request,  I  partake  of  it.  Remember,  if  I,  by 
this  act.  am  led  into  habits  of  intemperance,  if  I  meet  a 
drunkard's  grave,  the  blame  will  rest  upon  you." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Well  done  !  So  be  it !  I '  11  shoulder  the 
blame,  if  a  respectable  man  like  you  falls  by  brandy." 

Edward  drank  the  contents  of  a  glass,  and,  placing  it  upon 
the  table,  said  "  We  must  be  careful !  " 

"True!"  said  Mr.  Pump,  as  he  again  filled  the  glass ; 
"  we  cannot  be  too  much  so.  We  must  avoid  rum  and  gin  as 
we  would  a  viper  !  How  I  abhor  the  very  name  of  rum  ! 
0,  Mr.  Dayton,  think  of  the  misery  it  has  brought  upon  man  ! 
I  had  a  sister  once,  a  beautiful,  kind-hearted  creature.  She 
was  married  to  an  industrious  man ;  all  was  fair,  prospects 
bright.  By  degrees  he  got  into  bad  company ;  he  forgot  his 
home,  loved  rum  more  than  that,  became  dissipated,  died, 
and  filled  a  drunkard's  grave  !  She,  poor  creature,  went  into 
a  fever,  became  delirious,  raved  day  after  day,  and,  heaping 
curses  upon  him  who  sold  her  husband  rum,  died.  Since 
then,  I  have  looked  upon  rum  as  a  curse ;  but  brandy, —  it  is 
a  gentle  stimulant,  a  healthy  beverage,  a  fine  drink,  and  it 
can  do  no  harm." 

Onendago  swallowed  the  contents  of  his  glass,  and  Edward, 
who,  having  taken  the  first,  found  it  very  easy  to  take  the 
second,  did  the  same.  Yet  his  conscience  smote  him ;  he  felt 
that  he  was  doing  wrong. 


THE   HOPE    OF  THE   FALLEN.  61 

Like  the  innocent,  unthinking  bird,  who,  charmed  bj  the 
serpent's  glistening  eyes,  falls  an  easy  prey  to  its  crushing 
embrace,  was  he  at  that  moment.  He  the  bird,  unconscious 
of  the  danger  behind  the  charm. 

This  is  no  fictitious  tale.  Would  to  Heaven  it  contained 
less  of  truth !  The  world  has  seen  many  men  like  "Mr. 
Pump,"  and  many  have  through  their  instrumentality  fallen ; 
many  not  to  rise  till  ages  shall  have  obliterated  all  memory 
of  the  past,  with  all  its  unnatural  loves  !  Whilst  others, 
having  struggled  on  for  years,  have  at  length  seen  a  feeble 
ray  of  light  penetrating  the  dark  clouds  that  overshadowed 
their  path,  which  light  continued  to  increase,  till,  in  all  its 
beauty,  the  star  of  temperance  shone  forth,  by  which  they 
strove  ever  after  to  be  guided. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  Mr.  Pump  left.  The  two  had 
become  quite  sociable,  and  Mr.  Pump  saw  the  effect  of  his 
brandy  in  the  unusual  gayety  of  Edward. 

The  latter  was  not  lost  to  reflection ;  and  now  that  he  was 
alone,  thoughts  of  home,  his  business,  and  many  other  mat 
ters,  came  confusedly  into  his  mind. 

Letters  he  had  received  of  warning  and  advice.  He  took 
them  in  his  hands,  looked  over  their  contents,  and  with  feel 
ings  of  sadness,  and  somewhat  of  remorse,  thought  of  his 
ways. 

A  bundle  of  old  letters  !  A  circle  of  loved  friends  !  How 
alike  !  There  is  that's  pleasant,  yet  sad,  in  these.  How  viv 
idly  they  present  to  our  view  the  past !  The  writers,  some, 
perhaps,  are  dead ;  others  are  far  away.  Yet,  dead  or  alive, 
near  or  far  distant,  we  seem  to  be  with  them  as  we  read  their 
thoughts  traced  out  on  the  sheet  before  us. 

As  Edward  read  here  and  there  ar  letter,  it  did  seem  as 

though  his  friends  stood  beside  him,  and  spoke  words  of 

advice  which  conscience  whispered  should  be  heeded.     Love 

was  the  theme  of  not  a  few,  yet  all  warned  him  to  flee  from 

6 


62  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

evil.  He  returned  the  parcel,  and,  as  be  did  so,  he  pledged 
himself  that  if  he  drank  any  it  should  be  with  moderation : 
and  that,  as  soon  as  he  felt  its  ruinous  effects,  to  abstain 
altogether. 

The  next  morning  Othro  was  late  at  the  store ;  yet,  when 
he  arrived,  he  was  full  of  praise  of  the  play. 

"  Figaro  acted  Hamlet  to  a  charm,"  said  he  ;  "  and  Fanny 
Lightfoot  danced  like  a  fairy.  But  two  nights  more  !  Now, 
Edward,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  offend  me,  and  that  exceed 
ingly,  say  you  will  go  with  me  to-morrow  night." 

CHAPTER     VI. 

Three  years  had  elapsed  since  the  events  of  the  last 
chapter.  Edward  had  often  visited  his  native  village,  and, 
as  the  results  of  these  visits,  Emily  Lawton  became  Mrs. 
Dayton ;  and  she,  with  Mrs.  Brandon,  was  removed  to  an 
elegantly  furnished  house  in  the  city.  Yet,  with  all  its  ele 
gance,  Mrs.  Brandon,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  rural 
simplicity,  did  not  feel  happy  except  when  in  her  own 
room,  which  Edward  had  ordered  to  be  furnished  in  a  style 
answering  her  own  wishes. 

Messrs.  Dayton  and  Treves  had  been  highly  successful  in 
their  business  operations ;  and,  enjoying  as  they  did  the 
patronage  of  the  elite  of  the  city,  they,  with  but  little  stretch 
of  their  imaginative  powers,  could  see  a  fortune  at  no  great 
distance. 

Becoming  acquainted  with  a  large  number  of  persons  of 
wealth,  they  were  present  at  very  many  of  the  winter  enter 
tainments  ;  and,  being  invited  to  drink,  they  had  not  courage 
to  refuse,  and  did  not  wish  to  act  so  ungentcel  and  uncivil. 
Others  drank  ;  and  some  loved  their  rum,  and  would  have  it. 
Edward  had  taken  many  steps  since  the  events  of  our  last 
chapter;  yet,  thought  he,  "I  drink  moderately." 


THE   HOPE   OF  THE  FALLEN.  63 

There  was  to  be  a  great  party.  A  musical  prodigy,  in  the 
shape  of  a  child  of  ten  years,  had  arrived,  and  the  leaders 
of  fashion  had  agreed  upon  having  a  grand  entertainment  on 
the  occasion. 

Great  was  the  activity  and  bustle  displayed,  and  in  no 
place  more  than  at  the  store  of  Dayton  and  Treves.  As  ill- 
luck  would  have  it,  Kalph  had  been  absent  a  week  on  one  of 
his  drunken  sprees,  and  his  employers  were  obliged  to  procure 
another  to  fill  his  place. 

The  event  was  to  take  place  at  the  house  of  a  distinguished 
city  officer ;  and,  as  Messrs.  Dayton  and  Treves  were  to  pro 
vide  refreshment,  their  time  was  fully  occupied. 

The  papers  were  filled  with  predictions  concerning  it ;  and 
the  editors,  happy  fellows,  were  in  ecstasies  of  joy  on  account 
of  having  been  invited  to  attend.  Nor  were  Messrs.  Day 
ton  arid  Treves  forgotten ;  but  lengthy  eulogies  upon  their 
abilities  to  perform  the  duty  assigned  them  occupied  promi 
nent  places,  and  " steamboat  disasters,"  "horrid  murders," 
and  "dreadful  accidents,"  were  obliged  to  make  room  for 
these. 

In  the  course  of  human  events  the  evening  came.  Hacks 
were  in  demand,  and  the  rattling  of  wheels  and  the  falling 
of  carriage-steps  were  heard  till  near  midnight. 

The  chief  object  of  attraction  was  a  small  boy,  who  had 
attained  considerable  proficiency  in  musical  knowledge,  not 
of  any  particular  instrument,  but  anything  and  everything ; 
consequently  a  large  assortment  of  instruments  had  been  col 
lected,  upon  which  he  played.  As  music  had  called  them 
together,  it  was  the  employment  of  the  evening,  and  the  hour 
of  midnight  had  passed  when  they  were  summoned  to  the 
tables. 

Those  gentlemen  who  desired  had  an  apartment  to  them 
selves,  where  wine  and  cigars  circulated  freely.  Some,  in  a 
short  time,  became  excited ;  whilst  others,  upon  whom  the 


64  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

same  cause  had  a  different  effect,  became  stupid.  One  poor 
fellow,  whose  bloated  countenance  told  a  sad  tale,  lay  almost 
senseless;  another  sat  dreamingly  over  his  half-filled  gl;i>s. 
whilst  another  excited  the  risibilities  of  not  a  few  by  his 
ineffectual  attempts  to  light  his  cigar. 

Our  hero,  like  his  companions,  was  a  little  overcome  by  too 
frequent  potations  from  the  bottle.  It  was  a  sad  sight  to  a 
reflective  mind.  The  majority  were  young  men,  whose  eyes 
had  been  blinded  to  the  danger  they  were  in,  by  adhering  to 
a  foolish  and  injurious  custom. 

As  hour  passed  hour,  they  became  more  excited,  until  a 

high  state  of  enthusiasm  existed. 

*  ***** 

All  the  ladies  had  retired,  except  one,  and  she  strove  hard 
to  conceal  her  rising  sorrow  by  forced  smiles ;  yet  she  could 
not  restrain  her  feelings, —  her  heart  seemed  bursting  with 
grief.  In  vain  did  officious  servants  seek  to  know  the  cause. 
To  the  inquiries  of  the  lady  of  the  house  she  made  no  reply. 
She  dare  not  reveal  the  secret  which  pierced  her  very  soul  ; 
but,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  seemed  resolved  upon  not 
being  comforted.  Finally,  yielding  to  the  persuasive  influ 
ence  of  Mrs.  Venet,  she  expressed  her  fears  that  Edward  had 
tarried  too  long  at  the  bowl. 

Mrs.  Venet  tried  to  comfort  her  by  saying  that,  if  what 
she  so  much  feared  was  true,  yet  it  was  nothing  uncommon ; 
and  mentioned  several  men,  and  not  a  few  ladies,  who  had 
been  carried  away  in  a  senseless  condition. 

These  words  did  not  comfort  her ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
increased  her  fears,  and  led  her  to  believe  that  there  was 
more  danger  at  such  parties  than  there  was  generally  thought 
to  be;  and  the  fact  that  Edward  had  often  attended  such 
parties  increased  her  sorrow,  for  she  knew  not  but  that  he 
had  been  among  that  number  of  whom  Mrs.  Venet  spolce. 

Imagination  brought  to  her  view  troubles  and  trials  as  her 


THE   HOPE    OF   THE   FALLEN.  65 

future  lot ;  and  last,  not  least,  the  thought  of  Edward's  tem 
perament,  and  of  how  easily  he  might  be  led  astray,  rested 
heavily  upon  her  heart.  Mrs.  Venet  at  length  left  her,  and 
repaired  to  the  gentleman's  apartment,  in  order  to  learn  the 
cause  of  his  delay. 

She  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Who  in  the  devil 's  there,  with  that  thundering  racket?" 
inquired  a  loud  voice. 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Venet,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  0,  it  is,  is  it  ?     Well,  madam,  Dayton  the  confectioner^ 
and  a  dozen  jovial  souls,  are  having  a  rare  time  here.     Put 
that  down  in  your  memorandum-book,  and  leave  us  to  our 
meditations." 

"  Yes,  and  these  to  profit  and  loss,"  said  another,  and  the 
breaking  of  glasses  was  heard.  . 

"  If  Mr.  Dayton  is  within,  tell  him  his  lady  is  waiting  for 
him,"  said  Mrs.  Venet. 

"  Ed,  your  wife  's  waiting,"  said  one  of  the  party. 

"  Then,  friends,  I  —  I  —  I  must  go,"  said  the  inebriated 
man,  who,  though  badly  intoxicated,  had  not  wholly  forgotten 
her. 

His  companions  endeavored  to  have  him  remain,  but  in 
vain.  He  unbolted  the  door,  and,  leaving,  closed  it  upon 
them. 

Mrs.  Venet,  who  was  standing  without,  laid  hold  of  his  coat, 
and,  knowing  the  excited  state  of  Mrs.  Dayton,  and  fearing 
that  the  appearance  of  her  husband  would  be  too  much  for  her 
to  bear,  endeavored  to  induce  him  not  to  enter  the  room,  or, 
at  least,  to  wait  until  he  had  recovered  from  the  effects  of  his 
drinking. 

He  appeared  rational  for  a  while,  but,  suddenly  breaking 
away,  shouted.  "  Emily,  where  are  you?" 

The  sound  of  his  voice  resounded  through  the  building, 
6* 


66  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

and  his  drunken  companions,  hearing  it,  made  the  building 
echo  with  their  boisterous  laughter. 

He  ran  through  the  entries  gazing  wildly  around,  and 
loudly  calling  for  his  tfffe. 

The  servants,  hearing  the  tumult,  hastened  to  the  spot ; 
but  neither  they  nor  Mrs.  Venet  could  induce  him  to  be 
come  quiet. 

The  latter,  finding  she  could  have  no  influence  upon  him, 
repaired  to  the  room  in  which  she  left  Mrs.  Dayton,  and  found 
her  senseless  upon  the  floor,  and  to  all  appearances  dead. 
She  had  heard  his  wild  cries,  and  what  she  had  so  much 
feared  she  then  knew  to  be  true. 

Mrs.  Venet  rang  for  the  servants,  and  ordered  some  restora 
tives.  These  were  soon  obtained,  and  by  their  free  use  she 
had  nearly  recovered,  when  her  husband  rushed  into  the 
room. 

Upon  seeing  his  wife,  the  raging  lion  became  as  docile  as 
a  lamb.  A  sudden  change  came  over  him ;  he  seemed  to 
realize  the  truth,  and  it  sent  an  arrow  to  his  soul. 

Again  the  injured  wife  fainted,  and  again  the  restoratives 
were  faithfully  applied;  but  it  was  evident  that  if  Mr.  Dayton 
remained  in  her  presence  it  would  be  difficult  to  restore  her, 
and  the  man  who  before  would  not  be  approachec^  was  led 
quietly  away.  In  a  short  time  Mrs.  Dayton  became  sensible, 
and  her  first  words  were  to  inquire  after  Edward.  Being 
told,  she  was  induced  to  lie  down,  and,  if  possible,  enjoy  a 
little  sleep ;  but  sleep  she  could  not.  Her  mfnd  became 
almost  delirious,  and  fears  were  entertained  by  her  attend 
ants  that  she  would  lose  her  reason. 

The  effects  of  Edward's  carousal  were  entirely  dissipated 
by  the  sudden  realization  of  the  truth. 

To  Mrs.  Dayton  this  was  an  hour  of  the  deepest  sorrow. 
She  looked  back  upon  the  past,  and  saw  happiness ;  in  the 
future  nothing  but  misery  seemed  to  await  her.  Yet  a  change 


THE   HOPE   OF  THE  FALLEN.  67 

came  over  her ;  she  thanked  God  for  his  past  mercies,  and 
wisely  trusted  him  for  their  continuance.  She  implored 
pardon  for  past  ingratitude,  and  prayed  that  she  might  be 
more  grateful  in  future,  and  that,  having  tasted  of  the  cup 
of  sorrow,  she  might  not  drink  the  bitter  draught. 

CHAPTER     VII. 

The  next  morning  Edward  repented  of  his  crime,  and  in 
his  inmost  soul  felt  it  to  be  such, —  a  crime  of  deepest  dye. 

Emily  wept  as  she  bent  over  him-. 

"  Cease  thy  tears,"  said  he,  "  and  forgive;  it  is  but  that 
word,  spoken  by  thee,  that  can  send  peace  to  my  soul.  Yet 
what  peace  dim  I  expect  ?  I  have  wronged  thee  !  " — and  the 
wretched  man  wep*  like  a  child. 

New  thoughts  continually  sprang  into  existence,  —  the 
days  of  his  youth,  the  bliss  of  home,  and  his  present  situa 
tion.  He  felt  disgraced ;  —  how  should  he  redeem  his  char 
acter? 

"  0,  that  the  grave  would  hide  me,"  continued  Edward, 
"  and  that  in  death  I  might  forget  this  crime  !  But  no  !  I 
cannot  forget  it ;  it  will  cling  to  me  through  life,  and  the 
future " 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  the  strong  emotions  of  his 
soul  choked  his  utterance. 

He  arose  and  paced  the  room  in  agony  of  feeling  which 
pen  cannot,  describe.  Suddenly  halting,  he  gazed  steadfastly 
upon  the  face  of  his  wife.  It  was  deadly  pale,  and  a  tear 
dimmed  the  usual  lustre  of  her  eye. 

"  Comfort  thyself,"  said  he;  "no  further  evil  shall  come 
upon  thee.  It  shall  never  be  said  you  are  a  drunkard's  wife, 
— no,  no,  no,  never !  " 

"  Let  us,  then,  forget  the  past,"  said  Mrs.  Dayton. 

"What!  forget  those  days  when  I  had  not  tasted?     0, 


68  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

misery  indeed,  if  I  cannot  retain  their  remembrance  !  "  said 
Edward. 

"  Not  so,  Edward;  we  would  remember  those,  but  forget 
the  evil  that  has  befallen  us, —  all  will  be  well." 

"  Do  you  —  can  you  forgive  ?  " 

"  God  will  forgive  ;  and  shall  not  I  ]  " 

"Then  let  this  be  a  pledge  of  the  future ;"  and,  taking  her 
hand  in  his,  he  said,  "  I  resolve  to  walk  in  the  path  of  right, 
and  never  more  to  wander,  God  being  my  witness  and  my 
strength." 

"  }T  is  well  thou  hast  pledged  thyself,"  said  she  ;  "  but 
know  thou  the  tempter  is  on  every  side.  Should  the  wine- 
cup  touch  thy  lips,  dash  it  aside,  and  proclaim  yourself  a 
pledged  man." 

"  I  will !  "  was  the  response,  and,  taking  a  pen,  he  boldly 
placed  his  name  to  the  following  pledge : 

"  PLEDGE.  — We  pledge  ourselves  to  abstain  from  the  use 
of  all  intoxicating  drinks,  except  the  moderate  use  of  wine, 
beer  and  cider." 

Such  was  the  pledge  to  which  he  affixed  his  name,  and 
such  the  pledge  by  which  men  of  those  days  endeavored  to 
stay  the  tide  of  intemperance.  Did  not  every  man  who 
signed  that  pledge  himself  to  become  a  moderate  drinker ; 
and  is  not  every  moderate  drinker  pledged  to  become  a 
drunkard  ?  What  a  pledge  !  Yet  we  should  not  blame  the 
men  of  former  years  for  pursuing  a  course  which  they  con 
scientiously  thought  to  be  right.  That  was  the  first  step. 
It  was  well  as  far  as  it  led  ;  but  it  paused  at  the  threshold  of 
the  ark  of  safety,  and  there  its  disciples  fell.  They  had  not 
seen,  as  have  men  of  late  years,  the  ruinous  tendency  of 
such  a  course ;  and  knew  not,  as  we  now  do,  that  total  absti 
nence  is  the  only  sure  course. 

The  pledge  Edward  had  signed  was  no  preventive  in  his 


THE   HOPE   OF  THE   FALLEN.  69 

case.  IJe  had  tasted  ;  in  fact,  he  had  become  a  lover  of  strong 
drink  :  and  the  temptation  of  having  it  constantly  beside  him, 
and  daily  dealing  it  out  to  others,  was  too  strong  for  him  to 
resist.  When  he  drank,  he  did  think,  as  Emily  had  bade 
him,  that  he  was  a  pledged  man  ;  but  that  pledge  permitted 
him  to  drink  wine.  The  remedy  such  a  pledge  applied  was 
of  no  avail.  It  failed  to  reach  the  fountain-head,  and  strove 
to  stop  the  stream  by  placing  slight  resistances  in  its  way. 

A  long  time  must  elapse  before  a  man  can  know  the  heart 
of  his  fellow-man,  if,  indeed,  it  can  ever  be  known ;  and  it 
was  not  until  Edward  had  become  addicted  to  habits  of  intem 
perance  that  he  discovered  the  professed  friendship  of  Mr. 
Treves  to.  be  insincere.  Words  of  warning  seldom  came 
from  his  lips.  What  cared  he  if  Edward  did  fall  ?  Such 
being  the  case,  the  business  would  come  into  his  own  hands  ; 
and  such  "  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished  "  it  was' 
very  evident  that  if  Edward  did  not  soon  reform  was  not  far 
distant. 

Now  Emily  Dayton  began  to  experience  anxious  days 
and  sleepless  nights,  and  Mrs.  Brandon  begged  of  Edward 
to  reform.  Often  he  would  do  so.  He  would  sign  that 
pledge  ;  but  it  was  like  an  attempt  to  stay  a  torrent  with 
a  straw.  That  pledge  !  't  was  nothing !  yea,  worse  than 
nothing  ! 

yfc  "%£  -TV  -rr  -TV  TV 

Six  months  of  sorrowing  passed,  and  what  a  change  we 
behold  !  Experience  has  shown  to  Edward  that  the  use  of 
brandy  is  dangerous,  and  good  dame  Brandon  has  been  led 
to  believe  that  there  are  temptations  in  the  city  which  she 
little  thought  of. 

Edward,  driven  from  his  business,  revels  in  bar-rooms,  and 
riots  at  midnight ;  whilst  the  patient,  uncomplaining,  endur 
ing  Emily,  forced  by  creditors  from  her  former  home,  finds 
shelter  from  the  storm  in  a  small  tenement ;  where,  by  the 


70  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

aid  of  her  needle,  she  is  enabled  to  support  herself  and  aged 
aunt,  whilst  a  prattling  infant  plays  at  her  side,  and,  laugh 
ing  in  its  childish  sports,  thinks  not  of  the  sorrows  it  was 
born  to  encounter,  and  knows  not  the  sad  feelings  of  its 
mother's  wounded  heart. 

CHAP  TE  R     VIII  . 

In  a  low,  damp,  dark  cellar,  behold  a  man  washing  the 
glasses  of  a  groggery.  His  ragged  dress  and  uncombed  hair, 
his  shabby  and  dirty  appearance,  do  not  prevent  us  from 
seeing  indications  of  his  once  having  been  in  better  circum 
stances,  and  that  nature  never  designed  that  he  should  be 
where  he  now  is.  • 

Having  rinsed  a  few  cracked  tumblers,  he  sat  down  beside 
a  red-hot  cylinder  stove,  and,  bending  over  till  his  head 
rested  upon  his  hands,  he,  in  a  half-audible  voice,  talked  to 
himself. 

"  Here  't  is,  eighteen  forty  —  some  years  since  I  saw  that 
Dayton  cove  ;  eh,  gone  by  the  board  ?  The  daily  papers  say 
he  was  up  for  a  common  drunkard;  but,  being  first  time, 
was  lectured  and  sent  home.  Plaguy  poor  home  his,  I  reckon  ! 
Wonder  if  the  lecture  did  him  as  much  good  as  Old  Batter's 
did  me.  Ah  !  he  liked  that  brandy,  and  said  I  should  bear 
the  blame  if  he  was  ruined ;  but  he  an't  that  yet.  Here  I  am, 
ten  times  worse  off  than  he  is,  and  /  an't  ruined.  No  !  Mr. 
Dago  Pump  is  a  man  yet.  Well,  well !  what  shall  I  say  ? 
—  business  awful  dull,  and  it 's  damp  and  dark  here  ;  I  feel 
cold  'side  of  this  red-faced  stove." 

Mr.  Onendago  Pump  poked  the  fire,  and  continued  to  do 
so  till  a  ragged  little  boy,  without  shoes,  stockings  or  cap, 
came  down  the  slippery  steps,  and  asked  for  "  two  cents' 
•worth  of  rum,  and  one  cent's  worth  of  crackers." 

The  proprietor  of  this  subterraneous  establishment  threw 
aside  an  old  wire  that  served  as  a  poker,  and  demanded  pay- 


THE   HOPE   OF   THE   FALLEN.  71 

ment  in  advance.  The  child  handed  him  the  three  cents, 
received  his  rum  and  crackers,  and  left. 

Mr.  Pump,  who  for  a  long  time  had  lived  on  appearances, 
could  do  so  no  longer ;  for,  persisting  in  his  opinion  that 
brandy  could  not  hurt  him,  he  drank  so  much  that  bad  soon 
supplanted  good  appearances,  and  his  company  was  soon 
discarded. 

Mr.  Blinge  would  not  have  him  about  his  premises, 
although  the  one  drank  as  much  as  the  other,  and  a  great 
similarity  existed  between  them. 

He  was  turned  out  of  the  tavern,  and,  having  purchased 
four  shillings'  worth  of  brandy,  commenced  business  in  the 
cellar  we  have  alluded  to,  replenishing  his  stock  by  daily 
applying  to  a  neighboring  pump  ;  and,  for  every  gill  of 
brandy  he  drew  from  the  tap,  poured  a  gill  of  water  in  at  the 
bung,  and  thus  kept  up  a  stock  in  trade. 

In  a  short  time,  a  collection  of  drinking  loafers  met  daily 
at  his  place,  and  Dago  Pump  could  see  no  difference  between 
his  respectability  as  proprietor  of  a  bar-room,  and  his  who, 
being  owner  of  thousands,  fitted  up  "  oyster  saloons,"  which 
places  had  suddenly  sprung  up  in  all  large  cities. 

Edward  had  fallen ;  he  had  become  what  was  termed  a 
"  common  drunkard."  His  wife  wept  tears  of  anguish;  she 
entreated  ;  she  begged  him  to  reform.  She  prayed  to  Heaven 
for  its  aid  ;  yet  week  passed  week,  month  followed  month,  on 
Time's  unending  course,  and  she  was  a  drunkard's  wife  still. 
All  friends  had  forsaken  her.  Friends  !  shall  we  call  them 
such  ?  No  ;  they  did  not  deserve  the  name.  Their  friend 
ship  only  had  an  existence  when  fortune  smiled ;  when  a 
frown,  mantled  its  countenance,  or  a  cloud  intervened,  they 
fled.  Yet  God  was  raising  up  friends  for  her,  and  from  a 
class  of  society  from  whom  she  little  expected  aid.  Go<l  was 
working,  in  his  mysterious  way,  a  deliverance.  He  had 
heard  the  prayers  that  for  many  long  years  had  gone  up  to 


72  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

liis  throne  from  thousands  of  wretched  families ;  and,  moved 
to  pity,  he  was  to  show  them  that  he  was  a  God  of  mercy. 

Othro  Treves  —  where  is  he  ?  Not  in  that  elegant  store ; 
it  long  since  passed  into  other  hands.  Has  he  made  his  for 
tune,  and  retired  ?  Such  we  might  suppose  to  be  the  case, 
did  we  not  know  that  he  trusted  to  moderate  drinking.  Man 
might  as  well  trust  a  leaky  vessel  to  bear  him  across  the 
ocean,  as  to  trust  that. 

The  clock  struck  twelve. 

"  'T  is  midnight,"  said  a  female  voice,  "and  he  has  not 
come.  God  send  repentance  to  his  heart !  Hope  has  almost 
failed  me ;  yet  I  will  hope  on." 

"  Another  glass  of  brandy  for  me,"  said  a  man,  address 
ing  Mr.  Dago  Pump. 

"  And  rum  for  me,"  said  another. 

"  Gin  with  a  hot  poker  in  it  for  me,"  said  the  third ;  and 
Mr.  Pump  poured  out  the  poisons.  ' 

Half  a  dozen  men  stood  in  front  of  some  rough  boards 
that  served  as  a  "  bar." 

One  of  these  —  a  tall,  well-formed  man  —  gazed  fixedly 
upon  the  glasses,  seemingly  in  deep  thought. 

"Stop!"  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  Mr.  Pump  nearly 
dropped  the  bottle.  It  was  as  an  electric  shock  to  him : 
an  ashy  paleness  came  over  his  face.  "  Stop  !  "  he  again 
exclaimed.  All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him.  '  Some  tried  to 
laugh,  but  could  not.  Dago  set  down  the  bottle,  and  the 
glasses,  half  filled,  stood  upon  the  bench  before  him. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  he  who  had  caused  this  strange 
effect,  "  is  it  right  for  us  to  drink  that?  It  does  us  no  good ; 
it  brings  upon  us  much  evil ;  that 's  what  I  've  been  a-think- 
ing  while  'twas  being  poured  out." 

''  So  have  I,"  exclaimed  another. 

"And  I,"  said  a  third.    "I  would  have  been  worth  fifty 


THE   HOPE   OF  THE   FALLEN.  73 

thousand  dollars,  this  day,  had  I  never  touched  stuff  like  that. 
I  tell  you  what,  coveys,  let 's  come  out." 

"  Hurra  !  "  shouted  yet  another  ;  "  I  've  spent  a  good  for 
tune  in  rum-shops.  That 's  what  I  say ;  let 's  come  out." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "  let  us  come  out.  We  have 
been  in  long  enough ;  — in  the  gutter,  in  the  grog-shop,  in  mis 
ery,  in  disgrace,  in  poverty,  in  jail,  and  in  ruin.  I  say,  let 
us  come  out,  out  of  all  these." 

"  Amen  !  "  responded  all. 

"  Let  us  come  out,"  he  continued;  "  but  what  can  tem 
perance  folks  do  ?  I  have  signed  the  pledge,  and  signed, 
and  signed,  but  I  cannot  keep  it.  I  had  no  friends ;  tem 
perance  folks  never  came  to  me.  I  have  often  thought  that, 
if  a  friend  would  reach  forth  his  hand,  and  help  me  from  the 
gutter  when  I.  have  lain  there.  I  would  do  anything  for  such 
a  friend.  But  when  I  am  drunk  they  laugh  at  and  jeer 
me.  Boys  stone  and  cuff  me,  and  men  stand  by  and  laugh 
at  their  hellish  sport.  Yes,  those  calling  themselves  '  friends 
of  temperance  '  would  laugh  at  me,  and  say,  '  Miserable  fool, 
nothing  can  save  him  !  When  such  are  dead,  we  can  train  up 
a  generation  of  temperate  people.'  I  am  kicked  and  cuffed 
about  like  a  dog,  and  not  a  hand  is  extended  to  relieve  me. 
When  I  first  tasted,  I  told  him  who  gave  it  me  the  blame 
should  rest  on  him  if  I  fell.  Where  he  is  now,  I  know  not ; 
but,  wherever  he  is,  I  know  his  is  a  miserable  existence. 
Years  have  passed  since  then,  and  here  I  am,  a  miserable 
drunkard.  My  wife  —  where  is  she  ?  and  my  good  old  aunt 
—  where  is  she  ?  At  home  in  that  comfortless  room,  weeping 
over  my  fall,  and  praying  for  my  reform.  Brothers,  let  us 
arise  ;  let  us  determine  to  be  men  —  free  men  !  " 

"  It  is  done,"  said  one  and  all ;  and  the  keeper  of  the  cel 
lar  dashed  bottle  after  bottle  against  the  wall. 

"  Yes,   let  us  renounce  these  habits ;  they  are  hard  to 
renounce  ;  temptation  is  hard  to  resist." 
7 


74  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

"The  present  pledge  is  not  safe  for  us,"  said  the  keeper 
of  the  cellar,  as  he  took  a  demijohn  of  liquor  up  the  steps, 
and  emptied  it  in  the  gutter. 

"  Then  let  us  have  one  of  our  own,"  said  the  first  speaker. 
"  Let  it  be  called  '  The  Hope  of  the  Fallen?  for  we  are 
indeed  fallen,  and  this,  our  last  refuge  from  more  fearful 
evils,  is  our  only  hope.  May  it  not  disappoint  us !  May  we 
cling  to  it  as  the  drowning  man  grasps  the  rope  thrown  out 
for  his  rescue  !  And  not  for  us  alone  shall  this  hope  exist. 
Let  us  go  to  every  unfortunate  in  our  land,  and  speak  kindly 
to  him.  Ah,  my  friends,  we  know  the  value  of  a  kind  word. 
Let  us  lift  him  from  the  gutter,  place  him  upon  his  feet,  and 
say,  '  Stand  up  !  I  myself  also  am  a  man.'  ' 

Having  said  this,  he  sent  out  for  pen.  ink  and  paper, 
and  a  pledge  was  carefully  drawn  up,  of  which  the  follow 
ing  is  a  copy : 

"  We,  whose  names  are  hereunto  affixed,  knowing  by  sad 
experience  that  the  use  of  wine,  beer,  cider,  rum,  brandy, 
gin,  and  all  kinds  of  intoxicating  drinks,  is  hurtful  to  man, 
beast  and  reptile,  do  hereby  pledge  ourselves  most  solemnly 
to  abstain  now,  henceforth,  and  forever,  from  the  use  of  them 
in  whatever  shape  they  may  be  presented ;  to  neither  eat, 
drink,  touch,  taste,  nor  handle  them ;  and  in  every  place, 
and  on  every  occasion,  to  use  our  influence  in  inducing  oth 
ers  to  do  the  same." 

The  speaker  was  the  first  to  place  his  name  to  this  docu 
ment  ;  and  the  keeper  of  the  cellar  started  when  he  read  the 
name  of  "  Edward  Dayton." 

"  Is  it  possible !  "  said  he,  and,  grasping  his  hand,  he  shook 
it  most  heartily. 

Edward  was  as  much  astonished  as  he.  Such  a  change 
had  taken  place  that  they  could  not  at  first  recognize  each 
other. 


THE   HOPE   OF  THE   FALLEN.  75 

"Yes,"  said  Edward,  "  you  tempted  me  to  drink.  I  for 
give.  I  now  tempt  you  to  sign  this  pledge." 

No  words  were  required  to  induce  all  present  to  sign. 

They  all  spake  of  their  past  lives,  related  the  sorrows  they 
had  felt,  the  misery  they  had  endured ;  and  such  was  the 
interest  manifested  by  each  in  listening  to  these  plain,  unvar 
nished  tales,  that  they  resolved  upon  meeting  in  that  same 
place  the  next  night. 

The  next  day,  the  report  spread  like  wild-fire  about  the 
city  that  drunkards  themselves  were  reforming.  Many 
doubted,  and  would  not  believe  such  to  be  the  case. 

"  They  are  past  reforming,"  said  public  opinion ;  "let 
them  die ;  let  us  take  care  of  the  young." 

CHAPTER    IX. 

They  met  in  the  same  place  the  next  night,  but  the  next 
they  did  not.  Their  numbers  had  so  increased  that  the  cel 
lar  would  not  contain  them ;  and  they  engaged  a  large  hall, 
and  gave  public  notice  that  a  meeting  would  be  held  at  which 
reformed  drunkards  would  speak.  Those  who  before  doubted 
did  so  no  more ;  yet  from  many  the  sneering,  cold-hearted 
remark  was  heard,  "  They  will  not  hold  on." 

At  the  hour  appointed,  hundreds  thronged  to  the  place, 
and  hundreds  departed,  being  unable  to  gain  admittance. 
That  night,  nearly  Jive  hundred  signed  the  new  pledge, 
and  new  additions  were  made  daily. 

It  had  a  power  which  no  previous  pledge  had  possessed ; 
a  power,  with  God's  aid,  to  bring  man  from  the  lowest 
depths  of  woe,  place  him  on  his  feet,  and  tell  him,  "  Sin 
no  more." 

The  new  society  increased  in  numbers.  In  other  cities 
the  same  feeling  arose,  and  societies  of  the  same  kind  were 
formed.  The  papers  were  filled  with  accounts  of  their 


76  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

meetings,  and  the  cause  spread,  to  the  astonishment  and 
grateful  admiration  of  all. 

Days  of  prosperity  gladdened  the  heart  of  Edward.  Joy 
took  the  place  of  sorrow  in  his  family.  He,  like  his  thou 
sands  of  brethren,  had  been  snatched  as  a  brand  from  the 
burning,  and  stood  forth  a  living  monument  to  the  truth 
that  there  was  a  hope  for  the  fallen. 

Twelve  years  have  passed  since  that  ever-memorable 
night.  Millions  have  become  better  men,  and  yet  the  pledge 
remains  to  exert  its  influence,  and  who  can  doubt  that  God 
directs  its  course  ? 

;T  is  sending  joy  to  the  mourning,  and  many  a  wounded 
heart  it  heals.  Is  there  a  power  that  can  exceed  this? 
Is  there  another  pledge  that  has  effected  as  much  good? 

Let  us,  then,  push  on  the  car.  Let  our  influence  be 
such  as  will  advance,  and  not  retard,  its  progress.  Let  us  do 
this,  and  ere  long  we  may  rejoice  together,  and  earth  hold 
a  grand  jubilee,  and  all  men  shall  testify  that  the  Pledge 
is  the  "  hope  of  the  fallen." 


THOUGHTS  THAT  COME  FROM  LONG  AGO. 

THERE  are  moments  in  our  life 
When  are  hushed  its  sounds  of  strife  ; 
When,  from  busy  toil  set  free, 
Mind  goes  back  the  past  to  see : 
Memory,  with  its  mighty  powers, 
Brings  to  view  our  childhood  hours  ; 
Once  again  we  romp  and  play, 
As  we  did  in  youth's  bright  day ; 
And,  with  never-ceasing  flow, 
Come  the  hours  of  Long  Ago. 

Oft,  when  passions  round  us  throng, 
And  our  steps  incline  to  wrong, 
Memory  brings  a  friend  to  view, 
In  each  line  and  feature  true  ;  . 

Though  he  long  hath  left  us  here, 
Then  his  presence  seemeth  near, 
And  with  sweet,  persuasive  voice, 
Leads  us  from  an  evil  choice  ;  — 
Thus,  when  we  astray  would  go, 
Come  restraints  from  Long  Ago. 

Oft,  when  troubled  and  perplexed, 
Worn  in  heart  and  sorely  vexed, 
Almost  sinking  'neath  our  load, 
Famishing  on  life's  high  road, — 
Darkness,  doubt,  and  dark  despair 
Leading  us  we  know  not  where,  — 
How  hath  sweet  remembrance  caught 
From  the  past  some  happy  thought ! 
And,  refreshed,  we  on  would  go, 
Cheered  with  hopes  from  Long  Ago. 

7* 


78  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

What  a  store-house,  filled  with  gems 
Of  more  worth  than  diadems, 
Each  hath  'neath  his  own  control, 
From  which  to  refresh  his  soul ! 
Let  us,  then,  each  action  weigh, 
Some  good  deed  perform  each  day, 
That  in  future  we  may  find 
Happy  thoughts  to  bring  to  mind  ; 
For,  with  ever  ceaseless  flow, 
Thoughts  will  come  from  Long  Ago. 


DETERMINED  TO  BE  RICH 

RISE  up  early,  sit  up  late, 

Be  thou  unto  Avarice  sold  ; 
Watch  thou  well  at  Mammon's  gate, 

Just  to  gain  a  little  gold. 

Crush  thy  brother  neath  thy  feet, 
Till  each  manly  thought  is  flown ; 

Hear  not,  though  he  loud  entreat, 
Be  thou  deaf  to  every  moan. 

Wield  the  lash,  and  hush  the  cry, 
Let  thy  conscience  now  be  seared ; 

Pile  thy  glittering  gems  on  high, 
Till  thy  golden  god  is  reared. 

Then  before  its  sparkling  shrine 
Bend  the  neck  and  bow  the  knee ; 

Victor  thou,  all  wealth  is  thine, 
Yet,  what  doth  it  profit  thee  ? 


THE   HEAVEN   SENT,    HEAVEN   RETURNED.  T9 


THE  HEAVEN  SENT,  HEAVEN  RETURNED. 

PURE  as  an  infant's  heart  that  sin  ne'er  touched, 

That  guilt  had  ne'er  polluted ;  and  she  seemed 

Most  like  an  angel  that  had  missed  its  way 

On  some  kind  mission  Heaven  had  bade  it  go. 

Her  eye  beamed  bright  with  beauty ;  and  innocence, 

Its  dulcet  notes  breathed  forth  in  every  word, 

Was  seen  in  every  motion  that  she  made. 

Her  form  was  faultless,  and  her  golden  hair 

In  long  luxuriant  tresses  floated  o'er 

Her  shoulders,  that  as  alabaster  shone. 

Her  very  look  seemed  to  impart  a  sense 

Of  matchless  purity  to  all  it  met. 

I  saw  her  in  the  crowd,  yet  none  were  there 

That  seemed  so  pure  as  she ;  and  every  eye 

That  met  her  eye's  mild  glance  shrank  back  abashed, 

It  spake  such  innocence. 

*  One  day  she  slept,  — 

How  calm  and  motionless  !     I  watched  her  sleep 
Till  evening  ;  then,  until  the  sun  arose  ; 
And  then,  would  have  awakened  her,  —  but  friends 
Whispered  in  my  ear  she  would  not  wake 
Within  that  body  more,  for  it  was  dead, 
And  she,  now  clothed  in  immortality, 
Would  know  no  more  of  change,  nor  know  a  care. 
And  when  I  felt  that  truth,  methought  I  saw 
A  bright  angelic  throng,  in  robes  of  white, 
Bear  forth  her  spirit  to  the  throne  of  God  ; 
And  I  heard  music,  such  as  comes  to  us 
Oft  in  our  dreams,  as  from  some  unseen  life, 
And  holy  voices  chanting  heavenly  songs, 
And  harps  and  voices  blending  in  one  hymn, 
Eternal  hymn  of  highest  praise  to  God 
For  all  the  good  the  Heaven-sent^ne  had  done 
Since  first  it  left  the  heavenly  fold  of  souls, 
To  live  on  earth,  and  show  to  lower  man 
How  pure  and  holy,  joyous  and  serene, 
They  may  and  shall  assuredly  become 


80  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

When  all  the  laws  that  God  through  Nature  speaks 
Are  kept  unbroken !  *  *  * 

*  *  *        She  had  now  returned, 

And  heaven  resounded  with  angelic  songs. 
Before  me  lay  the  cold,  unmoving  form ; 
Above  me  lived  the  joyous,  happy  one ! 
And  who  should  sorrow  ?    Sure,  not  I ;  not  she  ; 
Not  any  one !     For  death, —  there  was  no  death,  — 
But  that  which  men  called  death  was  life  more  real 
Than  heart  had  e'er  conceived  or  words  expressed ! 


FLOWERS,    BRIGHT    FLOWERS! 

• 

FLOWERS  from  the  wild-wood, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers ! 
Springing  in  desert  spot, 
Where  man  dwelleth  not,  — 

Flowers,  bright  flowers, 
Cheering  the  traveller's  lot. 

Given  to  one  and  all, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers ! 
When  man  neglecteth  thee, 
When  he  rejecteth  thee, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers, 
God's  hand  protecteth  thee ! 

Remnants  of  paradise, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers ! 
Tinged  with  a  heavenly  hue, 
Reflecting  its  azure  blue, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers, 
Brightest  earth  ever  knew  ! 


FORGET  ME   NOT.  81 

Cheering  the  desolate, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers! 
Coming  with  fragrance  fraught, 
From  Heaven's  own  breezes  caught, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers, 
Teachers  of  holy  thought ! 

Borne  to  the  curtained  room, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers ! 
Where  the  sick  longs  for  light, 
Then,  for  the  shades  of  night, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers, 
Gladdening  the  wearied  sight ! 

High  on  the  mountain-top, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers ! 
Low  in  sequestered  vale, 
On  cliff,  mid  rock,  in  dale, 

Flowers,  bright  flowers, 
Ye  do  prevail ! 


FORGET    ME    NOT. 

FORGET  me  not  when  other  lipa 

Shall  whisper  love  to  thee  ; 
Forget  me  not  when  others  twine 

Their  chaplets  for  thy  brow  ; 
Forget  me  not,  for  I  am  thine, 

Forever  onward  true  as  now, 
As  long  as  time  shall  be. 

There  may  be  words  thou  mayest  doubt, 
But  when  I  tell  thee  "  I  am  thine,"  • 

Believe  the  heart's  assurance  true, 
In  sorrow  and  in  mirth 

Forever  it  doth  turn  to  you, 

Confiding,  trusting  in  thy  worth. 

Thou  wilt,  I  know,  be  mine. 


WHAT  IS   TRUTH? 

LONG,  long  ago,  one  whose  life  had  been  one  of  goodness 

—  whose  every  act  had  been  that  of  charity  and  good  will 

—  was  persecuted,  hated  and  maligned  !     He  came  with  new 
hopes.     He  held  up  a  light,  whose  rays  penetrated  far  into 
the  future,  and  disclosed  a  full  and   glorious  immortality  to 
the  long  doubting,  troubled  soul  of  man. 

He  professed  to  commune  with  angels !  He  had  healed 
the  sick  ;  he  had  given  sight  to  the  blind ;  caused  the  lame  to 
walk  ;  opened  prison-doors,  and  had  preached  the  Gospel  to 
the  poor.  Those  he  chose  for  his  companions  were  from 
humble  rank.  Their  minds' had  not  become  enslaved  to  any 
creed ;  not  wedded  to  any  of  the  fashionable  and  popular 
forms  of  the  day,  nor  immovably  fixed  to  any  of  the  dogmas 
of  the  schools.  He  chose  such  because  their  minds  were  free 
and  natural ;  "  and  they  forsook  all  and  followed  him." 

Among  the  rulers,  the  wealthy  and  the  powerful,  but  few 
believed  in  him,  or  in  the  works  he  performed.  To  them  he 
was  an  impostor.  In  speaking  of  his  labors  some  cant 
phrase  fell  from  their  wise  lips,  synonymous  with  the  "  it  is  all 
a  humbug  "  of  our  day.  His  healing  of  the  sick  was  denied ; 
or,  if  admitted,  was  said  to  be  some  lucky  circumstance  of 
fate.  His  opening  of  the  eyes  of  the  blind  was  to  them  a 
mere  illusion ;  the  supposed  cure,  only  an  operation  of  the 
imagination. 

All  his  good  deeds  were  underrated;  and  those  who, 
having  seen  with  their  own  eyes,  and  heard  with  their  own 
ears,  were  honest  enough  to  believe  and  openly  declare  their 


WHAT  IS  TKUTH?  83 

belief,  were  looked  upon  by  the  influential  and  those  in  high 
places  as  most  egregiously  deceived  and  imposed  upon. 

But,  not\vithstanding  the  opposition,  men  did  believe ;  and 
in  one  day  three  thousand  acknowledged  their  belief  in 
the  sincerity  of  the  teacher,  and  in  the  doctrines  which  he 
taught. 

Impressed  deeply  with  the  reality  and  divinity  of  his  mis 
sion, —  looking  to  God  as  his  father,  and  to  all  mankind  as 
his  brethren, —  Jesus  continued  his  way.  To  the  scoffs  and 
jeers  of  the  rabble,  he  replied  in  meekness  and  love ;  and 
amid  the  proud  and  lofty  he  walked  humbly,  ever  conscious 
of  the  presence  of  an  angelic  power,  which  would  silence  the 
loudest,  and  render  powerless  the  might  of  human  strength. 

He  spoke  as  one  having  authority.  He  condemned  the 
formalism  of  their  worship ;  declared  a  faith  that  went 
deeper  than  exterior  rites  and  ceremonies;  and  spoke  with 
an  independence  and  fearlessness  such  deep  and  soul- 
searching  truths,  that  the  people  took  up  stones  to  stone  him, 
and  the  priests  and  the  rulers  held  council  together  against 
him. 

At  length  the  excited  populace,  beholding  their  cherished 
faith  undermined,  and  the  new  teacher  day  by  day  incul 
cating  doctrines  opposed  to  those  of  Moses  and  the  prophets, 
determined  to  take  his  life,  and  thus  terminate  his  labors  and 
put  a  stop  to  his  heresies. 

They  watched  his  every  movement.  They  stood  by  and 
caught  the  words  as  they  fell  from  his  lips,  hoping  thus  to 
get  something  by  which  to  form  an  accusation  against  him. 
In  this  they  failed.  Though  what  he  said  was  contrary  to 
their  time-worn  dogmas,  yet  nothing  came  from  his  lips  but 
sentiments  of  the  purest  love,  the  injunctions  of  reason  and 
justice,  and  the  language  of  humanity.  Failing  in  this  plan 
to  ensnare  him,  justice  was  set  aside,  and  force  called  in  to 
their  aid. 


84  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

See  him  now  before  a  great  tribunal,  and  Pilate,  troubled 
in  soul,  compelled  to  say,  "  I  find  no  fault  in  this  man." 

Urged  to  action  by  the  mad  crowd  around  him,  balancing 
his  decision  between  justice,  the  prisoner's  release,  and  in 
justice,  the  call  to  crucify  him,  he  knows  not  what  to  do. 
In  an  agony  of  thought,  which  pen  cannot  describe  or  human 
words  portray,  he  delays  his  irrevocable  doom. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  persecutors  grow  impatient ;  and 
louder  than  ever,  from  the  chief  priests  and  the  supporters 
of  royalty,  goes  up  the  infamous  shout.  "  Crucify  him,  crucify 
him  !  "  At  this  moment,  the  undecided,  fearful  Pilate  casts 
a  searching  glance  about  him.  As  he  beholds  the  passionate 
people,  eager  for  the  blood  of  one  man,  and  he  innocent,  and 
sees,  standing  in  their  midst,  the  meek  and  lowly  Jesus, 
calm  as  an  evening  zephyr  over  Judea's  plains,  from  whose 
eye  flows  the  gentle  love  of  an  infinite  divinity, —  his  face 
beaming  in  sympathy  with  every  attribute  of  goodness,  faith 
and  humanity, —  all  this,  too,  before  his  mad,  unjust  accusers, 
from  whose  eyes  flash  in  mingled  rays  the  venom  of  scorn 
and  hate, —  his  mind  grows  strong  with  a  sense  of  right.  His 
feelings  will  not  longer  be  restrained,  and,  unconscious  of 
his  position,  forgetting  for  the  moment  the  dignity  of  his 
office,  he  exclaims,  with  the  most  emphatic  earnestness, 
"WHAT  is  TRUTH?" 

Eighteen  hundred  years  have  intervened  between  that  day 
and  this ;  and  now  the  same  inquiry  is  heard,  and  often  with 
the  same  earnestness  as  then.  Men  ask,  and  often  ask  in 
vain,  "  what  is  truth  ?  "  and  yet  the  great  problem  to  millions 
remains  unsolved. 

Generations  pass  on,  and  leave  to  others  the  great  ques 
tion  for  them  to  ask ,  and  they,  in  turn,  to  leave  unanswered. 
The  child,  ere  it  can  speak  in  words,  looks  from  its  wistful 
eye,  "  What  is  truth  ?  "  ^outh  comes,  and  all  the  emotions 
of  the  soul  are  awakened.  It  arises  from  the  playfulness  of 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH  1  85 

childhood,  forgets  its  little  games,  and,  finding  itself  an  actor 
in  the  drama  of  life,  looks  over  the  long  programme  of  parts 
from  which  it  is  to  choose  its  own,  and  anxiously  inquires 
"What  is  truth?"  Manhood  feels  the  importance  of  the 
question  ;  and  Age,  though  conscious  of  its  near  approach  to 
the  world  of  revealed  truth,  repeats  it. 

The  present  is  an  era  of  thought.  Men  begin  to  assume 
a  spirit  of  independence,  and  to  look  less  upon  human  author 
ity,  and  more  upon  that  light  which  lighteth  every  man  that 
cometh  into  the  world.  And  it  is  well  that  it  is  so.  It  is 
well  that  we  begin  to  look  upon  liberty  in  another  light  than 
a  mere  absence  of  iron  bonds  upon  our  hands  and  feet ;  that 
we  begin  to  discern  that 

"  He  is  a  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
Aiid  all  are  slaves  beside." 

We  are  pressing  on  to  know  the  truth.  We  have  grown 
weary  of  darkness,  and  are  seeking  the  light.  We  should 
remember,  in  our  researches,  that,  to  find  out  truth,  we  must 
not  be  pledged  to  any  form,  any  opinion,  or  any  creed,  how 
ever  old  or  dearly  cherished  such  limitations  may  have  been 
with  ourselves  or  others.  We  must  come  to  the  task  like 
little  children,  ready  to  learn.  We  must  leave  our  beliefs 
behind  us.  We  must  not  bring  them,  and  attempt  to  adapt 
our  discoveries  in  the  realms  of  eternal  truth  to  them ;  but 
we  must  build  up  the  structure  with  the  material  we  find  in 
the  universe  of  God ;  and  then,  when  reared,  if  we  find  that 
in  doing  so  we  have  a  stone  from  our  old  temple  nicely  ad 
justed  in  the  new,  very  well ;  — let  it  remain,  and  thank  God 
for  it. 

Men  have  trusted  too  much  in  the  views  of  past  ases.  and 

A  O          i  ' 

taken  for  truth  many  an  error,  because  some  one  back  in 
by-gone  ages  introduced  it  as  such,  and  it  has  been  believed 
in  and  held  most  sacred. 
8 


86  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

Let  our  course  be  our  own  course,  and  not  that  of  others. 
Let  us  seek  for  truth  as  truth.  Let  us  be  honest  and  press 
on,  trusting  in  God  the  rewarder  of  all,  who  will  bless  all 
our  efforts  to  ascertain  his  truths,  and  our  duty  to  him,  to 
our  fellow-men,  and  to  ourselves. 


THE  HOMESTEAD  VISIT. 

He  had  wandered  far  and  long,  and  when,  on  his  return  to  the  scenes  of 
his  early  life,  he  carne  in  full  view  of  the  old  house,  in  which  and  around 
which  those  scenes  were  clustered,  ho  threw  down  his  oaken  staff,  raised 
his  hands,  and  clapped  them  like  a  child.  Then  a  tear  would  roll  down  his 
face  ;  then  a  smile  illumine  it  ;  then  he  would  dance  with  joy.  As  he  ap 
proached  the  building,  he  observed  that  the  door  was  open  ;  and  the  large, 
hospitable-looking  room  was  so  inviting,  and  there  being  no  one  present, 
he  entered,  and  indulged  in  thoughts  like  these  : 

I  STAXD  where  I  have  stood  before  : 

The  same  roof  is  above  me,. 
But  they  who  were  are  here  no  more, 

For  me  to  love,  or  love  me. 
I  listen,  and  I  seem  to  hear 

A  favorite  voice  to  greet  me ; 
But  yet  I  know  that  none  are  near, 

Save  stranger  forms,  to  meet  me. 

I  '11  sit  me  down,  —  for  I  have  not 

Sat  here  since  first  I  started 
To  run  life's  race,  —  and  on  this  spot 

Will  muse  of  the  departed. 
Then  I  was  young,  and  on  my  brow 

The  rays  of  hope  were  shining ; 
But  Time  hath  there  his  imprint  now, 

That  tells  of  life's  declining. 

How  great  the  change !  —  though  I  can  see 

Full  many  a  thing  I  cherished  — 
Yet,  since  beneath  yon  old  oak  tree 

I  stood,  how  much  hath  perished. 
Here  is  the  same  old  oaken  floor, 

And  there  the  same  rough  ceiling 
Each  telling  of  the  scenes  of  yore, 

Each  former  joys  revealing. 


88  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

But,  friends  of  youth  —  they  all  have  fled  ; 

Some  yet  on  earth  do  love  us ; 
While  others,  passed  beyond  the  dead, 

Live  guardian  ones  above  us. 
Yet,  o'er  us  all  one  powerful  hand 

Is  raised  to  guard  forever, 
And  all,  ere  long,  one  happy  band 

Be  joined,  no  more  to  sever. 

I  've  trimmed  my  sail  on  every  sea 

Where  crested  waves  are  swelling ; 
Yet  oft  my  heart  turned  back  to  thee, 

My  childhood's  humble  dwelling. 
I  've  not  forgot  my  youthful  days, 

The  home  that  was  my  mother's, 
When  listening  to  the  words  of  praise 

That  were  bestowed  on  others. 

See,  yonder,  through  the  window-pane, 

The  rock  on  which  I  rested ; 
And  on  that  green  how  oft  I  've  lain  — 

AVhat  memories  there  are  vested  ! 
The  place  where  once  a  sister's  hand 

I  held  —  none  loved  I  fonder  ; 
But  she  's  now  with  an  angel  band, 

Whilst  I  a  pilgrim  wander. 

There  was  a  pretty,  blue-eyed  girl, 

A  good  old  farmer's  daughter ; 
We  used  the  little  stones  to  hurl, 

And  watch  them  skip  the  water.  • 
We  'd  range  among  the  forest  trees, 

To  gather  woodland  flowers ; 
And  then  each  other's  fancy  please 

In  building  floral  bowers. 

Within  this  room,  how  many  a  time 

I  've  listened  to  a  story, 
And  heard  grandfather  sing  his  rhyme 

'Bout  Continental  glory  ! 


THE  MARINER'S  SONG. 

And  oft  I  'd  shoulder  his  old  staff, 
And  march  as  proud  as  any, 

Till  the  old  gentleman  would  laugh, 
And  bless  me  with  a  penny. 

Hark  !  't  is  a  footstep  that  I  hear ; 

A  stranger  is  approaching  ; 
I  must  away  —  were  I  found  here 

I  should  be  thought  encroaching. 

******* 
One  last,  last  look  —  my  old,  old  home ! 

One  memory  more  of  childhood ! 
I  '11  not  forget,  where'er  I  roam, 

This  homestead  and  the  wild-wood. 


THE    MARINER'S    SONG. 

0  THE  sea,  the  sea  !  I  love  the  sea  ! 
For  nothing  on  earth  seems  half  as  free 
As  its  crested  waves  ;  they  mount  on  high, 
And  seem  to  sport  with  the  star-gemmed  sky. 
Talk  as  you  will  of  the  land  and  shore ; 
Give  me  the  sea,  and  I  ask  no  more. 

1  love  to  float  on  the  ocean  deep, 
To  be  by  its  motion  rocked  to  sleep ; 

Or  to  sit  for  hours  and  watch  the  spray, 
Marking  the  course  of  our  outward  way, 
While  upward  far  in  a  cloudless  sky 
With  a  shriek  the  wild  bird  passeth  by. 

And  when  above  are  the  threatening  clouds, 
And  the  wild  wind  whistles  'mid  the  shrouds, 
Our  masts  bend  low  till  they  kiss  the  wave, 
As  beckoning  one  from  its  ocean  cave, 

8* 


90  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

Then  hurra  for  the  sea  !  I  love  its  foam, 
And  over  it  like  a  bird  would  roam. 

There  is  that 's  dear  in  a  mountain  home, 
With  dog  and  gun  'mid  the  woods  to  roam  ; 
And  city  life  hath  a  thousand  joys, 
That  quiver  amid  its  ceaseless  noise ; 
Yet  nothing  on  land  can  give  to  me 
Such  joy  as  that  of  the  pathless  sea. 

"When  morning  comes,  and  the  sun's  first  raye 
All  around  our  gallant  topmast  plays, 
My  heart  bounds  forth  with  rapturous  glee, 
0,  then,  't  is  then  that  I  love  the  sea  ! 
Talk  as  you  will  of  the  land  and  shore  ; 
Give  me  the  sea,  and  I  ask  no  more ! 


LOVE'S    LAST    WORDS. 

TIIET  knew  that  she  was  going 

To  holier,  better  spheres, 
Yet  they  could  not  stay  the  flowing 

Of  their  tears ; 
And  they  bent  above  in  sorrow, 

Like  mourners  o'er  a  tomb, 
For  they  knew  that  on  the  morrow 

There  'd  be  gloom. 

There  was  one  among  the  number 

"Who  had  watched  the  dying's  breath, 
With  an  eye  that  would  not  slumber 

Until  death. 
There,  as  he  bent  above  her, 

He  whispered  in  her  ear 
How  fondly  he  did  love  her, 

Her  most  dear. 


LIGHT   IN    DARKNESS.  91 

"  One  word,  't  will  comfort  send  me, 

When  early  spring  appears, 
And  o'er  thy  grave  I  bend  me 

In  my  tears. 
A  single  word  now  spoken 

Shall  be  kept  in  Memory's  shrine, 
Where  the  dearest  treasured  token 

Shall  be  thine." 

She  pressed  his  hand  —  she  knew  him  — 

With  the  fervor  of  a  child  ; 
And,  looking  fondly  to  him, 

Sweetly  smiled. 
And,  smiling  thus,  she  started 

For  her  glorious  home  above, 
And  her  last  breath,  as  it  parted, 

Whispered  "  Love." 


LIGHT    IN    DARKNESS, 

SOMETIMES  my  heart  complaineth 
And  moans  in  bitter  sighs  ; 

And  dreams  no  hope  remaineth, 
No  more  its  sun  will  rise. 

But  yet  I  know  God  liveth, 
And  will  do  all  things  well ; 

And  that  to  me  he  giveth 

More  good  than  tongue  can  tell. 

And  though  above  me  linger 
At  times  dark  Sorrow's  shroud, 

I  see  Faith's  upraised  finger 
Point  far  beyond  the  cloud. 


MT.  VERNON,  AND  THE  TOMB  OF  WASHINGTON. 

THE  heat  of  noon  had  passed,  and  the  trees  began  to  cast 
their  evening  shadows,  when,  in  company  with  a  friend,  I 
seated  myself  in  a  carriage,  and  drove  off  in  the  direction  of 
Mount  Vernon.  We  crossed  the  long  bridge,  and  found  our 
selves  in  the  old  State  of  Virginia. 

It  was  a  delightful  afternoon ;  one  just  suited  to  the  pur 
pose  to  which  we  had  devoted  it.  The  trees  were  clad  in 
fresh,  green  foliage,  and  the  farms  and  gardens  were  bloom 
ing  into  early  life.  To  myself,  no  season  appears  so  beauti 
ful  as  that  of  spring.  All  seasons  to  me  are  bright  and  glo 
rious,  but  there  is  a  charm  about  spring  that  captivates  the 
soul.  Then  Nature  weaves  her  drapery,  and  bends  over  the 
placid  lake  to  jewel  herself,  as  the  maiden  bends  before  her 
mirror  to  deck  her  pure  white  brow  with  diamonds  and 
rubies.  All  is  life,  all  animation,  all  clothed  with  hope  ;  all 
tending  ijpward,  onward  to  the  bright  future. 

"  The  trees  are  full  of  crimson  buds,  the  woods  are  full  of  birds, 
And  the  waters  flow  to  music,  like  a  tune  with  pleasant  words." 

In  about  one  hour  we  reached  the  city  of  Alexandria. 
Between  this  place  and  Washington  a  steamboat  plies,  going 
and  returning  four  times  a  day.  The  road  from  Washington 
to  Alexandria  is  about  decent ;  but  the  road  from  thence  to 
Mount  Vernon  is  in  the  worst  possible  condition, — so  bad,  in 
fact,  that  we  dismounted  and  walked  a  considerable  distance, 
it  being  far  less  tiresome  to  walk  than  to  ride.  The  road 


MT.  VERNON,  AND  THE  TOMB  OF  WASHINGTON.     93 

winds  in  a  very  circuitous  route  through  a  dense  forest,  the 
lofty  trees  of  which,  rising  upon  either  hand,  cast  their  deep 
shadows  upon  us.  The  place,  that  would  otherwise  have  been. 
gloomy,  was  enlivened  by  the  variable  songs  of  the  mocking 
birds,  and  the  notes  of  their  more  beautiful-plumed  though 
less  melodious  companions. 

Occasionally  we  passed  the  hut  of  a  negro,  and  met  a  loaded 
team  from  some  Virginian  farm,  drawn  by  three  or  four  ill- 
looking,  yet  strong  and  serviceable  horses.  These  teams 
were  managed  by  negroes, —  never  less  than  two,  and  in  some 
cases  by  three  or  four,  or,  as  in  one  instance,  by  an  entire 
family,  man,  wife  Snd  children,  seated  on  their  loads,  whis 
tling  and  singing,  where  also  sat  a  large  black-and-white 
mastiff.  Long  after  we  passed  and  they  had  receded  from 
our  view,  we  could  distinctly  hear  their  melodious  voices 
singing  their  simple  yet  expressive  songs,  occasionally  inter 
rupted  by  a  "  gee,  yawh,  shau"  as  they  urged  on  their  dil 
atory  steeds. 

The  homes  of  the  negroes  were  in  some  cases  built  of 
stone ;  mostly,  however,  of  boards,  put  loosely  together,  and 
in  some  instances  of  large  logs,  the  crevices  being  filled  with 
mud,  which,  the  sun  and  wind  having  hardened,  were  white 
washed,  presenting  a  very  strong  though  not  very  beautiful 
appearance,  the  architecture  of  which  was  neither  Grecian 
nor  Roman,  but  evidently  from  "  original  designs  "  by  a  not 
very  fastidious  or  accomplished  artist. 

Groups  of  women  and  children  were  about  these  houses ; 
some  seated  on  the  grass,  in  the  shade  of  the  tall  trees ;  oth 
ers  standing  in  the  doors,  all  unemployed  and  apparently 
having  nothing  to  do  but  to  talk,  and  this  they  appeared  to 
engage  in  with  a  hearty  good  will. 

We  continued  our  way  over  stones,  up  steep,  deep-rutted 
hills,  covered  partly  with  branches  and  brambles,  and  down 
as  steep  declivities,  through  ponds  and  brooks,  now  and  then 


94  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

cheered  by  the  pleasing  prospect  of  a  long  road,  evidently 
designed  to  illustrate  the  "  ups  arid  downs  of  life." 

After  a  tiresome  journey,  partly  walked,  partly  ridden, 
which  was  somewhat  relieved  of  its  tediousness  by  the  roman 
tic  and  beautiful  scenery  through  which  we  passed,  we  came 
in  view  of  Mount  Vernon. 

An  old,  infirm,  yet  good,  sociable  negro  met  us  at  the 
gate,  and  told  us  that  there  was  another  road  to  the  Mount, 
but  that  it  was  not  as  good  as  the  one  we  came  over,  and 
also  that  there  was  a  private  road,  which  was  not  as  good  as 
either  of  the  others !  We  smiled,  threw  out  a  hint  about 
ai-rial  navigation.  He  smiled  also,  and,  thinking  we  doubted 
his  word,  said,  ''Indeed,  it  is  not  as  good;  I  wouldn't  tell 
you  a  lie  about  it."  Mercy  on  pilgrims  to  Mount  Vernon  ! 
If  you  ever  go  there,  reader,  do  provide  yourself  with  a  con 
science  that  can't  be  shaken  out  of  you. 

Having  been  kindly  furnished  with  a  letter  from  Mr.  Sea- 
ton,  the  editor  of  the  Intelligencer,  and  Mayor  of  Washing 
ton  city,  to  the  proprietor  of  the  estate,  we  inquired  whether 
he  was  at  home,  and  with  pleasure  learned  that  he  was. 

We  passed  into  what  we  deemed  an  almost  sacred  enclos 
ure,  so  linked  is  it  with  the  history  of  our  country,  and  the 
glorious  days  that  gave  birth  to  a  nation's  freedom.  It 
seemed  as  though  we  had  entered  an  aviary,  so  many  and  so 
various  the  birds  that  floated  in  the  air  around  us,  and  filled 
it  with  the  rich  melody  of  their  songs. 

At  a  short  distance  stood  a  beautiful  deer,  as  if  transfixed 
to  the  spot,  his  large,  black,  lustrous  eyes  turned  towards  us, 
his  ears  erect,  till,  suddenly  starting,  he  darted  away,  and 
leaped  down  the  steep  hill-side  to  the  water's  brink. 

The  house  I  need  not  describe,  as  most  persons  are  ac 
quainted  with  its  appearance,  from  seeing  the  numerous 
engraved  representations  of  it.  It  shows  many  evidences  of 
age  and  decay.  Time  is  having  his  own  way  with  it,  as  the 


MT.    VERNON,    AND   THE   TOMB   OF  WASHINGTON.         95 

hand  that  would  defend  it  from  his  ravages,  and  improve  its 
looks,  is  kept  back,  that  it  may  remain  as  nearly  as  possible 
in  the  same  condition  as  when  occupied  by  our  first  presi 
dent.  We  entered  and  passed  through  several  rooms,  endeav 
oring  to  allay  our  curiosity  by  asking  more  questions  than 
our  attendant  could  conveniently  answer  and  retain  his 
senses. 

We  saw  the  massive  key  of  that  old  French  prison-house, 
the  Bastile,  presented  to  General  Washington  by  that  friend 
of  freedom  and  humanity,  General  Lafayette,  soon  after  the 
destruction  of  that  monument  of  terror.  We  noticed  that 
depredations  had  been  committed  by  visitors  upon  the  costly 
marble  fire-frame,  which  was  a  gift  to  Washington. 

Mr.  Washington  being  called  to  the  farm,  we  availed  our 
selves  of  the  services  of  the  old  negro  before  mentioned,  who 
led  us  around  the  estate.  On  our  way  to  the  tomb,  we 
passed  through  what  we  judged  to  be  a  kitchen.  The  floor 
was  brick,  and  a  fireplace  occupied  nearly  all  of  one  side  of 
the  room  ;  one  of  those  old-fashioned  contrivances  which  were 
in  vogue  in  those  days  when  people  went  more  for  comfort 
than  appearance.  Half  a  score  of  negroes  were  in  the  room, 
who  gazed  at  us  as  we  entered,  covered  with  dust  and  dirt, 
the  real  free  soil  of  Virginia.  They  seemed  to  think  our 
intentions  more  of  a  warlike  than  a  peaceable  nature.  We 
soon  inclined  them  to  the  latter  belief,  however,  by  gently 
patting  a  curly-headed  urchin  upon  the  head,  and  distrib 
uting  a  few  pennies  among  the  crowd. 

Five  minutes'  walk,  and  we  were  at  the  tomb. 

"  There  is  the  old  General,"  said  the  aged  negro,  as  he 
touched  lightly  the  sarcophagus  with  his  cane  ;  "  that,  yon 
der,  is  his  wife,"  pointing  to  a  similar  one  at  the  left. 

Silently  I  stood  and  gazed  at  the  marble  coffin  that  held 
the  mortal  remains  of  him  whom,  when  he  lived,  all  people 
loved,  and  the  memory  of  whom,  now  that  he  has  passed-  from 


06  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

our  material  vision,  all  people  revere.  A  few  branches  of 
cypress  lay  upon  it,  and  at  its  base  a  few  withered  flowers. 
The  sarcophagus  that  holds  the  dust  of  Washington  is 
placed  upon  a  low  pedestal,  formed  of  brick.  A  brick  wall 
is  at  the  sides,  and  an  iron  slat  fence  or  gateway  in  front. 
Over  this  gateway  a  white  stone  is  set  in  the  brick-work, 
and  bears  this  inscription  : 

WITHIN   THIS   ENCLOSURE  ARE 
THE    REMAINS 

OF 
GENERAL   GEORGE   WASHINGTON. 

Short,  indeed,  but  how  full  of  food  for  thought ! 

"  General  George  Washington  !  "  He  needs  no  long  and 
fulsome  epitaph  carved  in  marble  to  tell  his  worth.  Did  his 
memory  depend  upon  that  alone,  the  marble  would  crumble 
into  dust,  mingle  with  his,  and  his  name  pass  away  with  the 
stone  that  man  vainly  thought  would  preserve  it.  No ;  his 
monument  is  a  world  made  free,  and  his  memory  as  lasting 
as  immortal  mind.  Wherever  the  light  of  freedom  shall  pen 
etrate,  it  will  bear  on  its  every  glistening  ray  his  cherished 
name ;  and  whenever  and  wherever  men  shall  struggle  with 
oppression,  it  shall  inspire  them  with  vigor,  and  cheer  them 
on  to  victory. 

Marble  will  perish,  and  monuments  of  adamant  will  crum 
ble  to  dust ;  but  the  memory  of  Washington  will  live  as  long 
as  there  is  a  heart  to  love,  or  a  mind  to  cherish  a  recollec 
tion  of  goodness. 

"  He  was  a  good  old  man,"  said  the  negro,  "  and  he  has 
gone  to  his  rest." 

"We  are  all  going,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause.  I 
thought  a  tear  stole  down  his  wrinkled  face ;  but  he  turned 
his  back  to  me,  and  left  me  to  my  own  reflections. 

Deep  silence  was  about  us.     We  heard  not  even  the  notes 


MT.    VERNON,    AND   THE   TOMB    OF   WASHINGTON.        97 

of  a  bird.  Not  a  zephyr  moved  the  air,  not  a  rustling  leaf 
was  there.  In  front,  far  below,  lay  the  Potomac.  Not  a 
breath  of  wind  moved  the  surface  of  its  waters,  but  calmly, 
peacefully,  undisturbed,  the  river  moved  on,  as  though  con 
scious  of  the  spot  it  was  passing.  On  its  glassy  surface  were 
reflected  the  branches  that  bent  over  and  kissed  it  as  it 
flowed,  and  the  last  rays  of  a  declining  sun  tinted  with  their 
golden  light  the  hills  on  the  opposite  shore. 

I  stood  at  the  tomb  of  Washington  :  on  my  right  stood  a 
distinguished  Indian  chief;  on  my  left,  "Uncle  Josh,"  the 
old  African,  of  three-score  years  and  ten.  We  represented 
three  races  of  the  human  family,  and  we  each  were  there 
with  the  same  feelings  of  love,  honor,  and  respect  to  departed 
worth. 

Night  was  hastening  on.  I  clambered  up  the  embank 
ment,  and  plucked  a  few  green  leaves  from  a  branch  that 
hung  over  the  tomb  ;  gazed  once  more,  and  yet  again,  within 
the  enclosure ;  then  turned  away,  and  hastened  to  overtake 
my  companions,  who  were  far  in  advance. 

If  our  country  is  ever  called  to  pass  through  another  strug 
gle,  may  God,  in  his  wisdom,  raise  up  for  it  another  Washing 
ton  ! 

The  sun  had  passed  the  horizon,  and  the  cool  evening  air, 
laden  with  the  fragrance  of  shrubbery  and  flowers,  gathered 
about  us.  A  lively  squirrel  sprang  across  our  path ;  a 
belated  bird  flew  by ;  and,  amid  the  pleasant,  quiet  scenes  of 
rural  life,  we  wended  our  way  homeward. 
9 


FREEDOM'S   GATHERING. 

I  SEEMED  to  live  beyond  the  present  time  ; 

Methought  it  was  when  all  the  world  was  free, 
And  myriad  numbers,  from  each  distant  clime, 

Came  up  to  hold  their  annual  jubilee. 
From  distant  China,  Afric's  sunburnt  shore, 

From  Greenland's  icebergs,  Russia's  broad  domain, 
They  came  as  men  whom  fetters  bound  no  more, 

And  trod  New  England's  valley,  hill,  and  plain. 
They  met  to  hold  a  jubilee,  for  all 
Were  free  from  error's  chain,  and  from  the  oppressor's  thrall. 

Word  had  gone  forth  that  slavery's  power  was  done  ; 

The  cry  like  wild-fire  through  the  nations  ran  ; 
Russia's  tame  serf,  and  Afric's  sable  son, 

Threw  off  their  chains  —  each  felt  himself  a  man. 
Thrones  that  had  stood  for  ages  were  no  more ; 

Man  ceased  to  suffer  ;  tyrants  ceased  to  reign  ; 
And  all  throughout  the  world,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Were  loosed  from  slavery's  fetter  and  its  chain  ; 
And  those  who  once  were  slaves  came  up  as  free, 
Unto  New  England's  soil,  to  keep  their  jubilee. 

New  England  !  'twas  a  fitting  place,  for  it 

Had  sent  its  rays  upon  them,  as  a  star 
Beams  from  the  glorious  heaven  on  slaves  who  sit 

In  chains,  to  lure  them  where  free  seraphs  are  ; 
The  light  it  had  shed  on  them  made  them  start 

From  their  deep  lethargy,  then  look  and  see 
That  they  of  Freedom's  boon  might  have  a  part, 

Their  nation  glorious  as  New  England  be. 
And  then  like  men  they  struggled  till  they  won, 
And  Freedom's  high-born  light  shone  as  a  noonday  sun. 

Men  gathered  there  who  were  men ;  nobly  they 
Had  long  and  faithful  fought  'gainst  error's  night, 


FREEDOM'S  GATHERING.  99 

And  now  they  saw  the  sunlight  of  that  day 

They  long  had  hoped  to  see,  when  truth  and  right 
Should  triumph  o'er  the  world,  and  all  should  hold 

This  truth  self-evident,  that  fellow-men, 
In  God's  own  image  made,  should  not  be  sold 

Nor  stalled  as  cattle  in  a  market-pen. 
Praises  they  sang,  and  thanks  they  gave  to  God, 
That  he  had  loosed  the  chain,  and  broke  the  oppressor's  rod. 

They  gazed  o'er  all  the  past.;  their  vision's  eye 

Beheld  how  men  in  Former  years  had  groaned, 
When  Hope's  own  flame  burned  dim,  and  no  light  nigh 

Shone  to  disperse  the  darkness  ;  when  enthroned 
Sat  boasting  Ignorance,  and  'neath  its  sway 

Grim  Superstition  held  its  lurid  lamp, 
That  only  darkened  the  obstructed  way 

In  which  man  groped  and  wandered,  till  the  damp, 
Cold,  cheerless  gateway  of  an  opening  tomb 
Met  his  extended  hand,  and  sealed  his  final  doom. 

Perchance  one  mind,  illumined  from  above, 

Did  strive  to  burst  the  heavy  bonds  it  wore, 
Pierce  through  the  clouds  of  error,  and,  in  love 

With  its  new  mission,  upward  seek  to  soar. 
Upon  it  shone  truth's  faintest,  feeblest  ray  ; 

It  would  be  free ;  but  tyrants  saw  and  crushed 
Man's  first  attempt  to  cast  his  chains  away, 

The  first  aspirings  of  his  nature  hushed. 
Thus  back  from  men  was  Freedom's  genius  driven, 
And  Slavery's  chains  in  ten-fold  strength  were  riven. 

In  gazing  o'er  the  past,  't  was  this  they  saw  — 

How  Evil  long  had  triumphed  ;  but  to-day 
Man  bowed  to  nothing  but  God's  righteous  law, 

And  Truth  maintained  its  undisputed  sway. 
Right  conquered  might ;  and  of  this  they  were  proud, 

As  they  beheld  all  nations  drawing  near,  — 
Men  from  all  lands,  a  vast,  unnumbered  crowd, 

While  in  their  eyes  full  many  a  sparkling  tear 
Trembled  a  while,  then  from  its  cell  did  start, 
Witness  to  the  deep  joys  of  an  o'erflowing  heart. 


100  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

There  came  up  those  who  'd  crouched  beneath  the  lash, 
Had  bowed  beneath  the  chains  they  scarce  could  bear, 
*-  Till  Freedom's  lightning  on  their  minds  did  flash, 

And  roused  them  as  a  lion  in  his  lair 
Is  roused  when  foes  invade  it,  then,  with  strength 

Near  superhuman,  one  bold  effort  made 
To  break  their  cruel  bondage,  till  at  length 

Beneath  their  feet  they  saw  their  fetters  laid. 
'T  was  then  they  lifted  their  freed  hands  on  high, 
And  peans  loud  and  long  resounded  through  the  sky. 

Up,  up  they  came,  and  still  the  bannered'  host 

Far  in  the  distance  met  my  wondering  eye  ; 
On  hill  and  dale,  on  all  New  England's  coast, 

White  banners  waved  beneath  a  cloudless  sky. 
The  aged  sire  leaned  on  his  oaken  staff, 

Manhood  stood  up  in  all  its  strength  and  pride, 
And  youfch  came  dancing  with  a  joyous  laugh, 

With  woman,  lovely  woman,  at  their  side  ; 
Bright  eyes,  glad  hearts,  and  joyous  souls,  were  there, 
Free  as  the  light  that  shone,  unfettered  as  the  air. 

The  mind,  that  spark  of  Deity  within 

That  hath  its  nurture  from  a  higher  world, 
No  longer  bound  by  tyranny  and  sin, 

Beheld  its  highest,  noblest  powers  unfurled. 
No  more  did  Error  bind  it  to  its  creed, 

Or  Superstition  strive  to  blind  its  sight ; 
It  followed  only  where  God's  truth  did  lead, 
And  trusted  him  to  guide  its  course  aright. 
The  inner  as  the  outer  man  was  free, 
And  both  united  held  this  glorious  jubilee. 


'T  was  all  a  vision,  and  it  passed  away, 

As  dreams  depart ;  yet  it  did  leave  behind 

Its  deep  impressions,  thoughts  that  fain  would  stay 
And  hold  communion  with  the  tireless  mind. 

I  wished  that  it  were  real ;  alas !  I  heard 
The  clank  of  Slavery's  fetters  rend  the  air  ; 


FREEDOM'S  GATHERING.  101 

And  feelings  of  my  heart  were  deeply  stirred, 

When  I  beheld  my  brethren,  who  dare 
Proclaim  all  "  equal,"  yet  in  chains  of  steel 
Bind  men,  who,  like  themselves,  can  pain  and  pleasure  feel. 

God  in  his  wisdom  meant  all  should  be  free, 

All  equal  :  each  a  brother -unto  man. 
Presumptuous  mortal !  who  His  great  decree 

Durst  strive  to  change  to  suit  thy  selfish  plan  ! 
Know  thou  that  his  fixed  purpose  will  be  done, 

Though  thou  arrayest  all  thy  puny  strength 
In  war  against  it !     All  who  feel  the  sun 

Shall  own  his  goodness,  and  be/ree  at  length. 
God  cares  for  mortals,  though  he  reigns  on  high  ; 
Freedom  is  His  own  cause,  and  it  shall  never  die  ! 

My  country  !  if  my  heart  one  wish  doth  hold, 

For  thee  and  for  thy  good,  it  is  that  thou 
No  more  permit  thy  children  to  be  sold  ! 

Forbid  that  they  as  slaves  to  man  shall  bow  ! 
For  them  our  fathers  nobly  fought  and  bled  ; 

For  them  they  poured  their  life-blood  forth  as  ram ; 
Shall  it  in  foreign  lands  of  us  be  said, 

We  bind  our  brothers  with  a  galling  chain  ? 
While  the  Old  World  is  struggling  to  be  free, 
America  !  shall  this  foul  charge  be  laid  to  thee  ? 

We  all  may  err  ;  may  oft  be  led  astray  ; 

Let  him  who  'd  free  the  slave  be  careful  he 
Is  not  a  slave  himself  to  some  fond  way 

He  would  adopt  to  set  his  brother  free  ! 
All  seek  one  end  ;  for  all  one  good  would  gain  ; 

Then,  on  as  brothers,  hand  in  hand  proceed  ! 
Paths  that  seem  intricate  will  all  be  plain, 

If  we  but  follow  where  God's  truth  would  lead. 
Trust  Him  for  strength  in  darkness  and  in  light ; 
His  word  will  cheer  us  on,  —  His  presence  give  us  might. 

9* 

. 


102  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 


SONG  OF   THE  BIRD. 

ON  the  topmost  branch  of  the  highest  tree 

I  sit  and  sing,  I  am  free  !  I  am  free  ! 

When  the  lightnings  flash,  when  the  thunders  roar, 

I  plume  my  wings  and  away  I  soar ! 

But  soon  on  the  branch  of  a  lofty  tree 

Gayly  I  sing,  I  am  free !  I  am  free  ! 

A  huntsman  he  came  by  my  nest  one  day, 

And  thought  that  with  gun  my  song  he  would  stay  ; 

But  I  left  my  nest  when  he  thought  me  there, 

And  I  roamed  about  in  my  native  air. 

Then,  when  he  was  gone,  on  the  highest  tree 

Gayly  I  sung,  I  am  free  !  I  am  free  ! 

It  is  I,  't  is  I,  that  at  dawn  of  day 
Go  to  meet  the  sun  at  its  earliest  ray. 
I  love  its  heat ;  so  I  cheer  it  along 
With  chirping  notes  and  melodious  song  ; 
And  all  the  day  on  the  highest  tree 
Gayly  I  sing,  I  am  free  !  I  am  free  ! 

When  the  dusky  shades  of  the  night  appear, 
In  my  nest  on  high  I  have  naught  to  fear  ; 
Sweetly  I  slumber  till  dawning  of  day, 
Then  to  the  East,  for  the  sun,  I  'm  away, 
Till,  borne  on  its  rays  to  the  highest  tree, 
Gayly  I  sing,  I  am  free !  I  am  free  ! 

0, 1  love  my  nest,  and  my  nest  loves  me  ! 
It  rocks  like  a  bark  on  the  dancing  sea  ; 
Gently  it  bows  when  I  wish  to  retire  ; 
When  in,  it  rises  higher  and  higher. 
0, 1  love  my  nest,  and  I  love  the  tree, 
Home  and  the  haunt  of  the  bird  that  is  free ! 


HE    IS    THY    BROTHER.  103 


I   CHANGE  BUT   IN   DYING. 

I  CHANGE  but  in  dying,  —  I  am  faithful  till  death ! 
I  will  guard  tliee  with  care  from  pollution's  foul  breath ; 
I  promise  that  ne'er  in  neglect  thou  shalt  pine  ; 
I  change  but  in  dying,  —  say,  wilt  thou  be  mine  ? 

I  come  not  with  riches  ;  good  fortune  ne'er  blest  me ; 
Yet  one  of  less  worth  hath  often  carest  me  ; 
The  light  of  true  love  o'er  thy  pathway  shall  shine  ; 
I  change  but  in  dying,  —  say,  wilt  thou  be  mine  ? 

I  change  but  in  dying,  —  no  holier  vow 
From  lips  mortal  e'er  came  than  I  breathe  to  thee  now  ; 
It  comes  from  a  heart  with  love  for  thee  sighing ; 
Believe  me,  't  is  true,  —  I  change  but  in  dying  ! 


HE   IS   THY  BROTHER. 

Go,  break  the  chains  that  bind  the  slave ; 

Go,  set  the  captive  free  ; 
For  Slavery's  banners  ne'er  should  wave, 

And  slaves  should  never  be. 

Yet  not  in  anger.     Hasty  words 

Should  not  to  thee  belong. 
They  will  not  loose  a  single  link, 

But  bind  them  yet  more  strong. 

0,  while  ye  think  to  him  in  chains 

A  brother's  rights  are  due, 
Remember  him  who  binds  those  chains ! 

He  is  thy  brother,  too  ! 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S   CLERK. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  WILL  you  sign  the  pledge  ?  "  asked  one  young  man  of 
another. 

"  No  !  "  was  the  ready  response;  and,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "  You  are  wrong,  and  I  am  right.  You  wish  to 
deprive  me  of  a  social  glass,  free  companionship  with  those 
I  love,  lifers  best  enjoyments,  and  to  live  bound  down  to  the 
contracted  limits  of  a  temperance-pledge.  —  Me  sign  !  No  ! 
Go  ask  leave  of  the  soaring  eagle  to  clip  his  wings  ;  of  the 
oriole  to  tarnish  his  bright  plumage ;  of  the  bounding  deer 
to  fetter  his  free  limbs, —  but  do  not  ask  me  to  sign  a 
pledge ! " 

The  young  men  parted.  Each  went  his  way ;  one  to  his 
counting-room,  the  other  to  his  home. 

The  proprietors  of  the  store  with  which  .the  former  was 
connected  had  been  for  a  number  of  years  busily  engaged  in 
the  importation,  adulteration  and  sale  of  wines  and  brandies. 
From  the  cellar  to  the  attic  of  their  large  warehouse,  pipes, 
puncheons,  and  barrels  of  the  slow  poison  were  deposited, 
with  innumerable  bottles  of  wine,  reputed  to  be  old  as  a  cen 
tury,  if  not  older.  A  box  or  two  of  Flemish  pipes  re 
lieved  the  sameness  of  the  scene, —  barrels  on  barrels. 

From  the  counting-room  of  the  establishment  a  large 
number  of  young  men  had  gone  forth  to  become  either  whole 
sale  or  retail  dealers  in  the  death-drugged  merchandise.  The 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLEKK.  105 

ill-success  which  attended  these,  and  the  lamentable  end  to 
which  they  arrived,  -would  have  been  singular  and  mysterious, 
had  it  followed  in  the  wake  of  any  other  business.  But,  as 
it  was.  effect  followed  cause,  and  such  is  the  law  of  nature. 

One,  a  young  man  of  promise  in  days  gone-by,  recently 
became  the  inmate  of  an  alms-house  in  a  distant  city ; 
another,  urged  to  madness  by  frequent  potations,  died  as  the 
fool  dieth  :  and  a  third,  who  had  been  the  centre  light  of  a 
social  circle,  as  he  felt  the  chill  of  death  come  upon  him, 
called  all  his  friends  near,  and  said  to  them,  "  Deal  not,  deal 
not  in  the  arrows  of  death,  lest  those  arrows  pierce  thine  own 
heart  at  last ! ' ' 

All  these  facts  were  known  to  the  public  ;  yet  they  coun 
tenanced  the  traffic  in  which  Messrs.  Laneville  &.  Co.  were 
engaged.  They  were  merchants,  they  were  wealthy ;  for 
these  reasons,  it  would  seem,  the  many-headed  public  looked 
up  to  them  with  a  feeling  bordering  on.  reverence,  somewhat 
awed  by  their  presence,  as  though  wealth  had  made  them 
worthy,  while  many  a  less  rich  but  ten-fold  more  honest  man 
walked  in  the  shadow  of  the  mighty  Magog,  unseen, —  uncared 
for,  if  seen.  Messrs.  Laneville  &  Co.  knew  that  the  law  was 
against  their  business ;  they  knew,  also,  that  public  opinion, 
if  not  actually  in  favor  of  it,  willingly  countenanced  it. 

Perchance  the  cry  of  some  unfortunate  widow  might  at 
times  reach  their  ears ;  but  it  was  speedily  hushed  by  the 
charmed  music  of  the  falling  dollar,  as  it  was  exchanged  for 
their  foul  poison.  Forgetting  they  were  men,  they  acted  as 
demons,  and  continued  to  deal  forth  their  liquid  death,  and 
to  supply  the  thousand  streams  of  the  city  with  the  cause 
of  the  crime  it  was  obliged  to  punish,  and  the  pauperism  it 
Avas  obliged  to  support. 

The  "  Vincennes  "  had  just  arrived  at  the  wharf  as  James 
entered  the  store.  It  had  been  the  custom  of  the  owners, 
on  the  annual  arrival  of  this  vessel,  to  have  a  party  on  board. 


106  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

On  this  occasion,  they  made  the  usual  arrangements  for  the 
festivity.  Cards  of  invitation  were  speedily  written,  and  dis 
tributed  among  members  of  the  city  government,  editors, 
clergymen,  and  other  influential  persons.  James  was  free  to 
invite  such  of  his  friends  as  he  chose,  and  in  doing  so  the 
question  arose  whether  he  should  ask  George  Alverton  to  be 
present.  It  was  known  to  him  that  George  was  a  teetotaller, 
and  had  that  morning  invited  him  to  sign  the  pledge.  lie 
knew  that  at  the  entertainment  wine  would  circulate.  He 
knew  that  some  would  indulge  rather  freely,  and  that  the 
maintenance  of  a  perfect  equilibrium  by  such  would  be  very 
difficult.  Suppose  he,  himself, —  that  is,  James, —  should  be 
among  these  last  mentioned,  and  that,  too,  before  his  friend 
George  ;  would  it  not  demolish  his  favorite  argument,  which 
he  had  a  thousand  times  advanced,  that  he  knew  right  from 
wrong, —  when  to  drink  and  when  to  stop  drinking?  yet, 
thought  he,  I  may^not  indulge  too  freely.  Yes;  I  will 
maintain  my  position,  and  show  by  practice  what  I  teach  by 
preaching.  Besides,  it  would  be  very  impolite,  as  well  as  un- 
courteous,  in  me,  not  to  invite  one  whose  character  I  value  so 
highly  as  his, —  one  whose  friendship  I  so  much  esteem.  I 
will  invite  him.  He  shall  be  present,  and  shall  see  that  I 
can  keep  sober  without  being  pledged  to  do  so. 

CHAPTER    II. 

George  Alverton  was  the  son  of  a  nobleman.  Start  not, 
republican  reader,  for  we  mean  not  a  stiff-starched  branch  of 
English  nobility,  but  one  of  America's  noblemen, —  and 
hers  are  nature's  !  He  was  a  hard-working  mechanic  ;  one 
of  God's  noblest  works, —  an  honest  man  !  Americans  know 
not,  as  yet,  the  titled  honors  of  the  Old  World ;  and  none, 
save  a  few,  whose  birth-place  nature  must  have  mistook,  would 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  107 

introduce  into  a  republican  country  the  passwords  of  a  mo 
narchical  one. 

"  An  invite  for  you,"  said  the  laughing  Josephine,  as 
George  entered  at  dusk.  "And  ten  to  one  it's  from  that 
black-eyed  Kate,  who  is  bewitching  all  the  young  men  with 
in  a  twenty-mile  circuit  with  her  loving  glances  —  eh  ?  A 
match,  ten  to  one  !  " 

"Always  gay,"  said  George,  as  he  turned  half  aside  to 
avoid  the  mischievous  look  of  his  sister ;  ' '  but,  by  the  way, 
Jos,  to  be  serious,  an  invite  did  you  say  ?  How  do  you 
know  that?" 

"0,  by  the  way  'tis  folded;  we  girls  have  a  way  of 
knowing  a  love-letter  from  bills  of  exchange,  and  an  invita 
tion  from  bills  of  lading.  Just  look  at  it ;  see  how  pretty 
'tis  enveloped,  how  handsomely  directed, —  George  A  Ivor- 
ton^  Esq.,  Present.  It 's  no  use,  George  ;  you  need  n't 
look  so  serious.  You  are  a  captured  one,  and  when  a  bird 's 
in  a  net  he  may  as  well  lie  still  as  flutter !  " 

Josephine  handed  the  note  to  her  brother,  slyly  winking  as 
she  did  so,  as  much  as  to  say, 

"  The  marriage-bells  are  ringing,  love." 

George,  observing  the  superscription,  was  convinced  that  it 
was  from  James  Clifton,  and  remarked, 

"  Don't  be  too  hasty ;  it  is  from  James ;  the  direction  must 
be  wrong ;  it  was  doubtless  intended  for  you.  Look  out,  Jos ; 
you  may  be  the  captured  one,  after  all !  " 

Josephine  was  not  to  be  thus  thrown  from  her  ground ;  so,, 
turning  to  her  brother  with  a  laugh,  she  said, 

"  For  me  !  Well,  if  so  't  is  so  ;  but  I  judge  from  what  I 
see.  Notwithstanding  your  insinuation  that  James  writes  to 
no  one  but  myself,  I  '11  venture  a  bright  gold  dollar  that 
this  is  for  yourself,  even  though  it  be  from  James.  Open 
the  budget,  and  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say." 


108  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

George  untied  the  white  ribbon  that  bound  it,  and,  open 
ing  the  envelope,  found  an  invitation  to  a  gentleman's  party 
to  be  held  that  evening  on  boaM  the  "  Vincennes."  Jose 
phine  laughed  merrily  over  what  she  deemed  her  brother's 
defeat,  and  George  as  heartily  over  what  he  deemed  his  vic 
tory.  He  was  advised  to  go ;  not,  however,  without  an 
accompanying  hint  of  its  being  a  dry  affair,  as  ladies  were 
to  be  excluded.  Josephine  was  puzzled  to  know  the  reason 
of  their  exclusiveness,  and  what  festivity  was  to  be  engaged 
in  of  which  they  could  not  partake. 

"I  scarcely  know  what  to  do,"  said  George,  "as  wines 
will  be  circulated,  and  I  shall  be  asked,  a  dozen  times  or 
more,  to  drink  of  them." 

"Go,  by  all  means,"  said  his  sister;'  "stand  your  own 
gr.ound,  be  firm,  be  resolute,  refuse  if  asked  to  partake  :  but 
do  so  in  a  manner  that,  while  it  shows  a  determination  to 
resist  temptation,  will  not  offend,  but  rather  induce  him  you 
respect  to  think  whether  it  will  not  be  best  for  him  also  to 
refuse." 

' '  I  will.  I  am  aware  of  the  situation  in  which  James  is 
placed.  He  has  a  generous,  a  noble  heart,  that  needs  but 
to  know  the  right  to  do  it.  I  will  go  ;  and  if  by  example, 
persuasion  or  otherwise,  I  can  prevail  upon  him  to  sign  the 
pledge,  I  will  do  so,  and  thank  God  for  it.  I  will  speak  to 
him  kindly,  and  in  reason.  Others  will  drink,  if  he  does 
not ;  others  will  fall,  if  he  escapes ;  and  such  examples  are 
the  most  convincing  arguments  that  can  be  used  to  prove 
•  that  an  unpledged  man,  in  these  days  of  temptation,  is  unsafe, 
and  unmindful  of  his  best  and  dearest  interests." 

CHAPTER     III. 

Notwithstanding  the  short  interval  between  the  reception 
of  the  cards  and  the  hour  of  festivity,  the  time  appointed  saw 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  109 

a  goodly  number  assembled  in  the  well-furnished,  richly-dec 
orated  cabins  of  the  ship. 

It  \vas  evident  that  some  individuals  had  been  busy  as 
bees,  for  all  was  clean  and  in  the  best  of  order.  Wreaths 
of  evergreen  and  nationaJB|ags  decorated  the  vessel,  and 
bouquets  of  bright  and  fragrant  flowers,  conspicuously  ar 
ranged,  loaded  the  air  with  their  sweet  perfumes.  There 
*  were  card-tables  and  cards,  scores  of  well-filled  decanters, 
and  glasses  almost  without  number.  At  one  end  of  the 
cabin  stood  a  table  filled  with  fruits  of  the  most  costly  kind. 
There  were  oranges  fresh  from  the  land  that  gave  them 
growth,  and  other  products  of  sunny  Italy  and  the  islands 
beyond  the  seas.  The  captain  was  as  lively  as  a  lark,  and 
as  talkative  as  wit  and  wine  could  make  him.  He  spoke  of 
his  quick  voyage,  praised  his  ship  till  praise  seemed  too  poor 
to  do  its  duty,  boasted  of  its  good  qualities,  said  there  was 
not  a  better  craft  afloat,  and  finished  his  eulogy  by  wishing 
success  to  all  on  board,  and  washing  it  down  with  a  glass  of 
Madeira,  which,  he  said,  was  the  stuff,  fo*  he  made  it  him 
self  from  grapes  on  the  island. 

Messrs.  Laneville  &  Co.  were  in  high  glee.  They  drank 
and  played  cards  with  men  worth  millions ;  spoke  of  the 
inclemency  of  the  season,  and  expressed  great  surprise  that 
so  much  poverty  and  wretchedness  existed,  with  one  breath, 
and  with  the  next  extolled  the  wines  and  administered  jus 
tice  to  the  eatables.  Editors  were  there  who  had  that  morn 
ing  written  long  " leaders"  about  the  oppression  of  the  poor 
by  the  rich,  and  longer  ones  about  the  inconsistencies  of  their 
contemporaries,  who  ate  and  drank,  and  dreamt  not  of  incon 
sistency  in  themselves,  though  they  guided  the  press  with 
temperance  reins,  and  harnessed  themselves  with  those  who 
tarried  long  at  the  wine. 

James  drank  quite  often,  and  George  as  often  admonished 
him  of  his  danger.  But  the  admonitions  of  a  young  man 
10 


110  TOWN    AND   COUNTKV. 

had  but  little  if  any  influence,  counteracted  as  they  were  by 
the  example  of  the  rich  and  the  great  about  him.  There  was 
Alderman  Zenip,  who  was  a  temperance  man  in  the  world, 
but  a  wine-drinker  in  a  ship's  cabin.  He  had  voted  for 
stringent  laws  against  the  saloflB  liquors,  and  had  had  his 
name  emblazoned  on  the  pages  of  every  professedly  temper 
ance  paper  as  a  philanthropist  and  a  righteous  man  ;  and  on 
the  pages  of  every  anti- temperance  publication,  as  a  foe  to* 
freedom,  and  an  enemy  to  the  rights  of  humanity.  But  he 
drank  ;  yes,  he  had  asked  James  to  take  a  glass  of  the  water 
of  Italy,  as  he  called  it.  Clergymen,  so  called,  disgraced 
themselves,  and  gave  the  scoffers  food  for  merriment.  Judges 
who  that  day  might  have  sentenced  some  unfortunate  to  im 
prisonment  for  drinking,  drank  with  a  gusto  equalled  only 
by  lawyers  who  would  talk  an  hour  in  court  to  prove  a  man 
discreditable  evidence  because  he  was  known  to  visit  bar 
rooms  !  It  was  the  influence  of  these,  and  such  like,  that 
made  James  drink,  and  caused  the  labor  of  George  to  prove 
all  unavailing,  ^fc  is  the  example  of  the  rich  that  impedes 
the  progress  of  temperance,  —  they  who  loll  on  damask  so 
fas,  sip  their  iced  champagnes  and  brandies,  and  never  get 
"drunk,"  though  they  are  sometimes  "indisposed." 

The  clock  struck  twelve,  then  one,  and  the  morning  hours 
advanced,  light-foot  messengers  of  the  coming  day.  The 
gay  and  the  jocund  laugh  was  hushed,  and  the  notes  that 
told  of  festive  mirth  were  silenced.  Nature,  either  fatigued 
by  exertion  or  stupefied  by  wine,  had  sank  to  repose ;  and 
those  who  had  lingered  too  long  and  indulged  too  freely 
were  lying  on  the  cabin-floor  helpless.  George  retired  at  a 
seasonable  hour.  James  remained,  and  fell,  as  others,  before 
the  enchanting  wine-cup's  power  ! 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  Ill 


CHAPTER     IV. 

The  next  morning  George  called  at  the  store  of  Laneville 
&  Co.  No  one  was  in  save  a  small  lad,  who,  to  his  inquiry, 
replied  that  all  were  sick.  .The  youth  was  a  short,  porpoise- 
shaped  lad,  who  appeared  quite  independent  for  his  age  and 
station,  and  told  George  that  he  had  better  call  the  next  day, 
as  the  folks  would  n't  be  down.  In  an  instant  George  sus 
pected  the  cause  of  their  absence.  Though  he  knew  James 
would  be  mortified  to  be  seen,  yet  he  determined  upon  visit 
ing  him,  thinking  it  a  favorable  opportunity  to  submit  to 
him  the  expediency  of  taking  that  step  which  he  had  urged 
upon  him  on  the  morning  previous. 

Conscious  of  being  engaged  in  an  act  of  duty,  he  ascended 
the  steps  that  led  to  the  door  of  the  house.  He  rang ;  a 
servant-girl  answered  his  call. 

"Holloa!"  shouted  a  voice  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
"Who's  there?  —  what  cow's  got  into  my  pasture  now? 
Another  glass,  friends, —  once  more  !  Now  drink,  '  Death 
to  the  temperance  cause,  and  ill-luck  to  fanatics  ! '  Holloa ! 
down  below, —  come  aloft !  " 

"Hush!  be  quiet."  said  a  female  voice, '  in  a  whisper. 
"James,  do  respect  yourself." 

"  Hush  !  who  says  hush  ?  My  soul 's  in  arms  ;  come  on, 
John  Duff !  bring  liquor  here,  and  cursed  be  he  who  says, 
I  've  had  enough  !" 

The  closing  of  a  door  put  an  end  to  this  extemporaneous 
address.  George  stood  like  a  statue ;  he  knew  not  which 
course  to  take, — whether  to  go  up  to  his  friend's  room,  or  go 
down  to  the  street.  He  soon  determined,  and  sent  word  that 
he  wished  to  speak  to  James.  In  a  moment  the  latter  was 
again  to  be  heard  declaiming  disconnected  sentences  on  all 
manner  of  subjects,  until,  learning  the  wisli  of  George,  he 
shouted, 


112  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

"Yes,  tell  him  to  come  up  and  revel  in  the  groves  of 
Madeira,  or  dance  with  peasant-girls  at  the  grape-gatherings 
in  Sicily !  Yes,  George,  up  here,  and  see  how  a  man  can 
live  a  temperance  life  without  signing  the  pledge,  and  be  as 
independent  as  he  pleases  !  " 

As  George  entered,  James  grasped  his  hand, —  swung 
him  round  rather  familiarly,  and  pushed  him  towards  a 
chair. 

The  furniture  and  all  that  was  in  the  room  was  in  the 
greatest  confusion,  not  excepting  James  Clifton  himself. 
There  was  a  boot-jack  and  a  vase  of  flowers  side  by  side  on 
the  mantel ;  a  pair  of  boots  on  the  centre-table,  with  two  or 
three  annuals  on  them,  as  though  to  keep  them  from  being 
blown  away  ;  a  nice  hat  stood  on  the  hearth  filled  with  coal- 
ashes,  while  an  inkstand  upside  down  on  a  pile  of  linen 
bosoms  had  left  an  impression  not  easily  effaced  ;  the  paint 
ings  that  were  in  the  room  were  turned  face  towards  the 
wall, —  some  freak  of  James',  as  though  ashamed  to  have 
them  see  the  performances. 

"  Now,  George,"  said  Mr.  Clifton,  "you  can  be  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  my  doctrine.  I  did  n't  sign  the  pledge,  and 
I  'm  as  sober,  sober  as  a  brandy-smasher  !  You  recollect 
what  a  great  poet  says,  — 

'  Drink  till  the  moon  goes  down.' 
I  can  improve  that ;  I  say,  — 

4  Drink  till  yourselves  go  down.' 

What  an  age  this  is,  when  temperance  fanatics  dance 
through  the  world  to  smash  decanters,  and  make  one  pledge 
himself  to  be  a  fool !  Independence  is  my  motto  !  I  go  for 
independence  now,  independence  forever,  and  as  much  longer 
as  possible.  Who  says  I  am  not  right  1  Deluded  mortals, 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  113 

who  wink  at  sin,  and  kick  at  brandies  !  Magnificent  mon 
strosities,  making  manliness  moonshine ;  metaphysical  Moors 
murdering  Munchausen  — ' ' 

"  But  hold,  James,"  said  George,  interrupting  him  in  his 
remarks;  "keep  within  bounds, —  let  us  reason."  It  was 
not  with  much  hope  of  success  that  George  asked  his  friend 
to  "  reason,"  for  his  condition  was  one  not  in  the  least  degree 
favorable  to  such  a  performance. 

"  Reason  1 "  exclaimed  James.  "  I  'm  not  a  reasonable, — 
reasoning,  I  mean,— ^f.  'm  not  a  reasoning  being  !  Go  ask 
the  pigs  to  reason  !" 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  George  seemed  inclined  to  argu 
ment,  for  he  immediately  said, 

"Don't  you  see  the  ill  effects  of  last  night's  indulgence 
in  the  confusion  around  you,  and  feel  them  in  your  own 
mind  and  body? " 

' '  Now  you  talk  like  a  man.  Let  us  send  the  '  James 
town'  to  Ireland  with  bread  and  butter.  'Tis  a  vote!  passed 
unanimously  by  both  houses  of  Congress.  We  '11  fire  a  full 
broadside  of  gingerbread  at  the  old  Green  Isle,  and  teach  the 
people  to  eat  for  a  living." 

This  rambling  from  the  inquiry  George  had  made  induced 
him  to  relinquish  all  hope  of  influencing  him  at  that  time. 
He  saw  how  he  had  fallen  ;  and  he  needed  no  prophet's  ken 
to  behold  his  future  course,  unless  he  turned  from  the  path 
he  was  now  so  enthusiastically  following. 

Seeing  that  no  good  could  be  effected  by  his  remaining, 
George  arose  to  depart,  when  James  caught  his  arm,  and  told 
him  not  to  be  in  such  haste. 

u  I  want  you  to  take  a  glass  of  wine  ;i'  and,  ringing  the 
bell,  a  servant  was  at  the  door  before  Mr.  Alverton  had  an 
opportunity  to  say  or  do  anything. 

"  You  know  I  don't  drink  wines,"  said  George ;  "  why  do 
you  ask  me?" 

10* 


114  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

"Don't  drink 7" 

"You  look  surprised,  but  you  know  I  do  not." 

"  Everybody  drinks." 

"  Not  all,  if  I  am  one  of  that  extensive  number." 

"Well,  my  employer  sells  liquors,  my  minister  drinks  his 
wine,  and  my  friends  all  drink,  except  you ;  and  you  are  a 
sort  of  nondescript,  a  sort  of  back-action  member  of  human 
society,  a  perfect  ginger-cake  without  any  ginger  in  it. 
Say,  got  a  pledge  in  your  pocket?  /  have;  here. it  is:" 
and  he  pulled  forth  a  slip  of  paper,  o**vhich  he  had  written 
some  half-legible  lines. 

' '  See  how  you  like  it ;  —  it  is  what  is  called  the  Inde 
pendent  Pledge.  I  '11  read  it. 

"'We  the  undersigned,  believing  the  use  of  wines  and  other 
liquors  beneficial  to  ourselves  in  general,  and  the  dealers  in 
particular,  pledge  ourselves  to  act  as' we  please  in  all  matters 
of  politics  and  phrenology.' ' 

The  servant,  who  yet  stood  at  the  door  waiting  orders, 
burst  forth  into  a  loud  laugh,  as  the  reading  of  this  was  fin 
ished,  while  George,  though  inwardly  sorrowing  over  the 
situation  of  his  friend,  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  at  his 
ridiculous  appearance  and  doings.  There  was  a  good  humor 
running  through  the  method  of  his  madness,  that  made  him 
far  from  being  disagreeable. 

Mr.  Alverton  passed  to  the  door,  and,  motioning  the  ser 
vant  aside,  entreated  her  not  to  bring  him  wine. 

"  Well,  sir,  that  be 's  just  as  he  says,"  said  she,  in  a  loud 
voice,  and  in  a  manner  that  convinced  Mr.  Alverton  that  she 
cared  not  as  to  what  might  follow. 

' '  Good  ! ' '  shouted  James.  ' '  Why,  she 's  my  confidential ; 
she  's  as  true  to  me  as  a  book.  Sal,  bring  up  two  decanters 
of  that  best."  - 

The  girl  laughed,  and  bounded  out  of  the  room  to  do  as  ho 
requested. 


%  •      THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  115 

The  wine  came;  a  long  talk  ensued,  as  unmeaning  and  use 
less  as  that  we  have  above  related,  and  George  left  with  a 
heavy  heart,  promising  to  call  on  the  morrow. 

As  he  entered  the  street,  and  the  cool,  fresh  air  of  an 
autumn  morning  greeted  him,  he  felt  somewhat  revived,  and, 
quickening  his  step,  he  soon  reached  his  home.  He  dare  not 
mention  his  adventure  to  Josephine,  though  he  wanted  to. 
She  was  the  betrothed  of  James.  In  one  month  they  were 
to  be  married !  Dark  and  frowning  were  the  clouds  that 
gathered  in  their  blackness  over  the  mind  of  George,  as  he 
mused  on  what  had  been  and  what  was  to  be.  Should  he 
tell  her  all  1  It  was  his  duty.  Should  he  shrink  from  the 
performance  of  his  duty  ?  No. 

CHAPTER     V. 

"Never!"  exclaimed  the  young  lady,  as  she  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  a  smile  of  joy  and  hope  burst  through  her  tears. 
"  George,  I  know  he  will  not  go  too  far, —  0,  no  !  As  an 
eagle  may  touch  the  earth,  yet,  soaring  again,  float  in  its 
own  element  in  the  light  of  the  sun,  so  may  he,  though  he 
has  this  once  fallen,  soar  upward,  and  higher  than  ever,  plan 
ning  not  another  descent  so  low." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  said  George. 

"  And  why  not  hope?  You  know  each  has  an  opinion  of 
his  own,  but  that  opinion  may  be  changed.  Though  he  now 
opposes  the  pledge,  and  the  cause  of  which  it  is  the  represent 
ative,  yet  he  may  think  differently,  and  may,  through  your 
influence,  become  one  of  its  most  zealous  advocates.  Don't 
mention  to  him  that  I  know  of  his  act,"  exclaimed  Josephine, 
springing  to  catch  the  arm  of  her  brother,  as  he  opened  the 
door  to  leave. 

She  was  answered  in  the  negative,  and  in  the  examination 
of  a  few  articles  that  were  being  prepared  for  her  bridal-day 


116  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY.  0 

she  gradually  forgot  all  unpleasant  misgivings,  and  nothing 
but  happiness  could  she  see  before  her. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  day  that  George  had  an  opportu 
nity  of  seeing  his  friend.  He  then  met  him  at  the  store,  and 
James  laughed  over  the  doings  of  the  day  previous  as  a 
"good  joke,"  as  he  called  them.  On  that  occasion,  as  on 
several  subsequent  ones,  he  urged  him  to  sign  and  become  a 
total-abstinent;  but,  with  such  influences  as  those  which 
surrounded  him,  it  was  not  strange  that  these  efforts  proved 
ineffectual. 

Weeks  passed,  and  the  hour  of  marriage  drew  nigh.  The 
festivity  was  to  be  one  of  unusual  splendor  and  gayety.  For 
a  long  time  had  preparations  been  in  progress. 

It  was  painful  for  George  to  refer  to  a  matter  which  he 
would  not  have  spoken  of  had  it  not  so  much  concerned  the 
welfare  of  a  sister  whom  he  loved  as  his  own  self.  When  he 
mentioned  the  circumstances  attending  the  party  on  board  the 
"Vincennes,"  she,  in  the  fulness  of  her  love,  excused 
James,  and  brought  up  a  host  of  arguments  to  prove  the 
impossibility  of  a  reoccurrence  of  any  similar  event. 

Love  is  stronger  than  death ;  and,  mastering  all  things, 
overlooks  or  decreases  the  evil  and  enlarges  the  goodness  of 
its  object.  It  was  so  in  this  case.  Josephine's  attachment 
to  James  led  her  to  sacrifice  all  other  feelings  and  opinions  to 
her  deep  affection  for  him,  and  made  her  willing  to  stand  by 
him  or  fall  with  him.  as  the  vine  to  the  tree,  bright  and 
fresh,  though  the  once  sturdy  oak  lies  fallen  and  blighted. 

The  evening  came,  and  with  it  many  a  bright  and  joyous 
heart  to  the  home  of  George  Alverton.  A  more  beautiful 
bride  never  pronounced  the  bridal-vow  than  she  who  there, 
encircled  with  bright  eyes  and  smiling  faces,  gave  all  to 
James  Clifton.  And  when  it  was  over,  when  they  joined  the 
bright  galaxy  that  were  about  them  and  mingled  with  others 
in  the  festive  mirth  of  the  hour,  a  life  of  joy  and  social  com- 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  117 

fort  was  predicted  for  the  hearts  which  that  night  were  made 
one  !  Music  was  there  with  its  charms,  Terpsichore  with 
her  graceful  motions,  and  everything  from  commencement  to 
close  was  conducted  in  so  happy  and  agreeable  a  manner, 
that  not  a  few  young  folks,  as  they  rode  home,  agreed  to  go 
through  the  same  performance  at  their  earliest  convenience. 

After  the  usual  "calls"  had  been  attended  and  a  few 
weeks  had  elapsed.  James  and  his  young*  wife  located  them 
selves  in  a  dwelling-house,  which  was  furnished  in  an  elegant 
though  not  in  an  extravagant  manner.  He  was  to  continue 
with  Messrs.  Laneville  &  Co.  They  reposed  the  utmost  confi 
dence  in  him,  and  considered  him  the  best  judge  of  liquors  in 
the  city.  On  the  day  of  his  marriage  they  increased  his  sal 
ary  one  third,  so  that  his  income  was  by  no  means  to  be 
complained  of.  It  was  such  as  to  enable  him  to  live  well, 
and  to  lay  aside  quite  a  large  amount  quarterly.  His  pros 
pects  were  good,  and  no  young  man  ever  had  better  hopes 
of  success. 

We  cannot  close  this  chapter  without  referring  again  to  the 
fact  that  he  dealt  in  that  which  made  widows  of  wives,  or 
phans  of  children,  and  sent,  down  the  stream  of  life  a  rivulet 
of  death.  This  fact  was  like  a  cloud  hanging  over  his  path ; 
and,  though  it  was  but  as  a  speck  far  up  in  sky,  who  could 
tell  what  it  might  become  ?  .  . 

CHAPTER     VI. 

For  a  year  the  young  couple  were  most  happy.  The  mo 
ments  flew  too  quickly  by ;  so  laden  were  they  with  joy, 
they  would  have  them  endure  forever.  "  Little  Jim"  was  a 
smart  one,  if  he  wasn't  as  old  as  his  father,  and  the  hand 
somest  piece  of  furniture  in  the  house  !  Nobody  doubted 
that ;  at  least,  it  would  n't  have  been  well  for  them  to  have 
expressed  their  doubts  in  a  very  audible  manner,  if  they  held 
any. 


118  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

Tasting,  trying  and  judging  of  liquors,  led  to  a  loving,  sip 
ping  and  drinking  of  them.  We  may  hate  temperance,  but 
it  is  certain  we  cannot  hate  a  good  without  loving  a  bad 
thing.  In  offering  for  sale  an  article  of  food  or  beverage,  the 
influence  of  our  using  it  ourselves,  or  not  using  it,  goes  a 
great  ways  towards  our  disposing  of  it,  or  our  not  disposing 
of  it.  James  knew  this,  and  acted  accordingly.  He  always 
had  the  best  of  liqtfors  in  his  house,  as  it  was  often  the  case 
that,  after  selling  a  man  a  large  amount,  he  invited  him 
home  to  dine.  They,  in  turn,  invited  him  out  in  the  evening, 
and  it  was  often  a  late  hour  when  he  returned.  At  home 
the  presence  of  his  wife  prevented  him  from  indulging  too 
freely ;  but  away  from  home,  and  surrounded  by  gay  compan 
ions,  he  went  as  full  lengths  as  any. 

Such  indulgences  could  not  continue  long  without  showing 
their  effects.  George  saw  these,  and  remonstrated  with  him ; 
but  Josephine  could  not  or  did  not  observe  them.  If  he  did 
not  arrive  home  at  the  customary  hour,  she  ever  had  an 
excuse  for  his  delay. 

The  arrival  of  another  cargo  of  wines,  etc.,  for  Messrs. 
Laneville  &  Co.,  was  duly  acknowledged  by  another 
carousal  in  the  cabins  of  the  vessel,  which  ended  in  results 
far  more  destructive  to  the  reputation  of  James,  and  to  the 
happiness  of  himself  and  friends,  than  the  former. 

At  a  late  hour  Josephine  sat  waiting  and  watching,  when 
the  ring  of  the  door-bell,  the  movement  of  the  servant,  the 
mingling  of  several  suppressed  voices,  and  the  shuffle  of  foot 
steps  on  the  entry-floor,  aroused  her  from  that  listless  inac 
tion  which  fatigue  had  brought  upon  her.  She  sprang  to 
the  door  of  her  room,  and,  opening  it,  was  about  to  descend, 
when  her  brother  met  her  and  requested  her  not  to  do  so. 

"Why?"  she  inquired. 

He  gave  no  definite  answer  to  her  inquiry,  but  requested 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  119 

her  to  retire  for  the  night,  saying  that  James  would  probably 
be  home  in  the  morning,  bright  and  early  as  the  dawn. 

"  And  not  before?  "  she  inquired,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that 
startled  her  attentive  brother.  Then,  as  a  stray  thought  of 
the  former  ship's  party  and  its  unfortunate  results  came  into 
her  mind,  she  exclaimed,  "I  must  see  him  now !  Let  me 
know  the  worst.  Nothing  can  keep  me  from  him.  James, 
my  James  !  "  and,  bursting  from  her  brother's  embrace,  she 
ran  down  stairs,  and,  notwithstanding  the  remonstrance  of 
her  friends,  opened  the  door  where  half  a  dozen  men  and  her 
husband  had  gathered. 

James  lay  upon  a  sofa,  nearly  unconscious  of  what  was 
transpiring  around  him.  Josephine  caught  the  hand  that 
hung  loosely  at  his  side,  threw  herself  on  the  floor  beside 
him,  smoothed  back  his  dishevelled  hair,  and  kissed  his 
flushed  cheek. 

"James,  James!"  exclaimed  she.  He  opened  his  eyes, 
gazed  for  a  moment  listlessly  upon  her.  then  closed  them 
again.  "  O,  James  !  don't  you  know  me?  James  !  say, — 
wake  thee,  dearest !  " 

She  pressed  his  hand  in  her  own,  and,  as  the  tears  fell 
freely  from  her  eyes,  so  unused  to  weep,  she  continued  her 
calls  upon  him  who  lay  insensate  before  her.  She  whispered 
in  his  ear  the  breathings  of  her  heart,  or  in  louder  tones 
gave  vent  to  the  grief  that  wounded  it. 

Vainly  did  friends  beseech  her  to  retire ;  vainly  did  they 
tell  her  she  could  not  hasten  his  restoration  to  reason.  She 
declared  her  determination  to  remain  with  him  till  morning. 

Day  dawned.  There,  at  the  side  of  her  husband,  sat  the 
faithful  wife,  as  neglective  of  her  own  wants  as  she  was  at 
tentive  to  his.  /  James  began  to  realize  his  condition,  but  not 
fully.  He  had  vague  ideas  of  being  in  his  own  house,  but 
his  mind  was  at  times  wanderingr  and  his  words  betrayed  its 
condition. 


120  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

"Here  I  am,"  said  he,  "in  a  paradise,  with  an  angel  at 
my  side,  and  beauty  and  rich  fragrance  all  around  me.  See 
you  how  that  diamond  sparkles  at  the  bottom  of  this  brook 
flowing  at  my  feet !  Watch  that  dove  as  it  comes  down  from 
the  sky !  See,  it  nestles  in  my  angel's  bosom.  See  how  it 
folds  its  wings !  See  how  she  smooths  down  its  ruffled 
plumage,  and,  hark  ye,  listen  to  its  plaintive  cooing !  My 
angel,  my  sweet  one,  come  near  me,  let  me  whisper  in  thine 
ear.  Go,  bring  me  that  bunch  of  luscious  grapes  which  is 
suspended  on  that  sapphire  cloud,  and  make  me  wine  of  them 
that  gods  might  envy  !  Ah,  see,  she  goes, —  she  wings  her 
flight, —  she  grasps  the  rich  fruit, —  she  comes  !  She  presses 
the  grapes,  and  here  is  wine, —  from  where ?  From  paradise  ! 
Droop  not,  droop  not,  droop  not,  spirit  of  light !  Do  not 
weep !  What  are  you  weeping  for  1  Here,  let  me  wipe 
those  tears  away.  Ah,  they  are  pearls,  they  are  not  tears  ! 
I  thought  they  were  tears. —  Going  so  soon? — Gone?" 

He  sank  into  a  quiet  sleep.  Josephine  had  wept  as  she 
caught  his  words  partly  uttered  in  a  whisper  so  low  as  to  be 
scarcely  distinguishable.  Now.  as  he  slept,  she  watched  his 
breathings,  and  hoped  that  when  he  awoke  he  would  be  of  a 
sane  mind,  and  that  a  realization  of  what  had  occurred  might 
influence  his  future  career  for  the  better. 

CHAPTER    VII. 

"News!"  exclaimed  Capt.  Thorndyke,  as  he  shook  the 
hand  of  his  friend  Basyl.  "  Have  you  not  heard  it?  Why, 
it 's  common  talk.  Young  Clifton  imbibes  rather  too  freely. 
You  know  him, —  Laneville  &  Co.'s  clerk, —  best  judge  of 
liquors  in  the  states ;  strange  that  he  will  imbibe." 

"  Strange  indeed,  very  strange,  if  he  is  really  a  judge  and 
knows  what  they  're  made  of,"  said  Basyl;  "  and  stranger  yet 
that  he  will  sell.  For  my  part,  I  consider  a  man  that  will 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  121 

sell  liquor,  in  these  days  of  light  and  knowledge,  as  bad  as  a 
highwayman,  and  no  better  than  a  pirate." 

"Rather  plain  spoken." 

"I  know  it,  but,  look  ye,  there's  Follet,  a  fine  man,  a 
first-rate  man,  once  worth  half  a  million,  but  now  not  worth 
a  guinea-pig.  The  man  that  sold  him  good  wine  in  his  bet 
ter  days  sells  him  poor  whiskey  now ;  and  the  confounded 
dealer  in  fancy  poisons  has  taken  the  houses  of  Mr.  Follet, 
brick  by  brick,  and  piled  them  up  in  his  own  yard,  so  to  speak. 
Why,  no  longer  ago  than  yesternight,  he  took  a  fine  black 
coat  of  Dick  Pherson,  and  gave  him  in  return  a  coarse, 
brown  one  and  a  glass  of  sin  —  gin,  I  mean.  Fudge  !  talk 
about  consistency !  That  rumseller  is  nominated  for  an 
alderman,  and  he  '11  be  elected.  He  's  rich  ;  and  all  your 
say-so  temperance  men  will  vote  for  him,  and  when  elected 
he'll  go  hand-in-hand  with  some  lone  star,  who  deems  it  ad 
visable  that  men  should  be  licensed  to  corrupt  the  morals  of 
the  community,  in  order  to  make  it  wise  and  virtuous !  " 

The  captain  acknowledged  that  his  friend  had  a  right  view 
of  the  matter,  and,  as  he  bade  him  good-day,  promised  to 
take  care  of  his  vote  at  the  coming  election. 

We  doubt  whether  any  man  ever  felt  more  deeply  sensible  of 
the  wrong  committed  than  did  James,  as  he,  the  next  morning, 
awaking  from  his  long  sleep,  beheld  his  wife  standing  at  his 
side,  now  weeping  over  him,  now  joyous  and  smiling  at  his 
returned  consciousness,  and  closely  attentive  to  his  every 
want.  He  felt  himself  unworthy  of  such  kindness,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  saw  the  evil  of  the  doctrine  he  had 
all  his  lifetime  advocated,  namely,  that  a  man  can  drink 
enough  and  not  too  much ;  in  other  words,  that  he  can  guide 
his  evil  passions  as  he  will,  and  command  them  to  stop  in 
their  course,  nor  trespass  on  forbidden  ground. 

But  James  even  yet  was  opposed  to  the  pledge,  and,  though 
George  presented  it  with  strong  arguments,  he  refused  to  sign 
11 


122  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

it,  and  laughed  at  the  idea  of  his  ever  getting  the  worse  for 
liquor  again. 

The  employer  of  James  Clifton  had  his  name  on  the  same 
ticket  with  that  of  the  rumseller  before  mentioned,  as  a  can 
didate  for  mayor.  Election-day  came.  The  two  political 
parties  had  their  tickets  in  the  hands  of  scores  of  distributors. 
There  was  a  third  party,  with  its  ticket,  the  caption  of  which 
— "Temperance  Men  and  Temperance  Measures" — was 
bandied  about  with  gibes  and  sneers  by  the  prominent  men 
of  both  other  parties. 

Among  the  vote-distributors  was  a  young  man  of  exceed 
ingly  prepossessing  appearance,  and  who,  by  means  of  the 
winning  manner  he  possessed,  disposed  of  a  large  number  of 
tickets,  even  to  men  of  the  opposing  party.  "Vote  for 
Laneville  !  vote  for  Laneville  ! ;'  was  his  constant  cry,  save 
when  he,  in  well-chosen  words,  proclaimed  the  ability  and 
worthiness  of  his  candidate.  Some  said  he  was  urged  on  by 
selfish  motives ;  that,  as  he  was  a  clerk  of  Laneville's,  the 
election  of  that  candidate  would  be  much  to  his  pecuniary 
benefit.  But  James  Clifton  cared  for  none  of  these  insinua 
tions. 

"Well,  deacon,  my  dear,  dear  deacon,  who  do  you  vote 
for?"  inquired  a  stanch  teetotaller,  as  an  old  gentleman 
approached.  The  person  addressed,  after  a  little  hesitation, 
during  which  a  few  nervous  twinges  of  the  mouth  betrayed 
his  nervousness  of  conscience,  and  the  debate  going  on  in  his 
heart  between  consistency  and  principles  on  the  one  side,  and 
party  names  and  measures  on  the  other,  replied,  "Well, 
well," — then  a  pause, — "well,  I  don't  know;  go  for  the 
best  man,  I  s'pose." 

"Here's  the  ticket,  sir!  the  best  man,  sir,  is  Laneville  ! 

vote  for  Laneville  !  "  shouted  James,  as  he  thrust  his  ticket 

into  the  hands  of  the  old  gentleman,  and,  laying  hold  of  his 

Vd  him  into  tho  room,  nnd  paw  him  deposit  tlio  voto  of 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  123 

• 

a  temperance  advocate  for  a  rumseller  !  James  laughed  well 
over  his  victory,  while  the  distributors  of  the  temperance 
tickets  felt  somewhat  ill  at  ease  in  seeing  him  whom  they 
thought  their  truest  friend  desert  them  in  the  hour  of  need, 
and  give  his  vote  and  influence  for  the  other  party. 

The  day  ended;  the  votes  were  counted,  and  Laneville 
was  proclaimed  elected  by  a  majority  of  one  ! 

The  night  was  one  of  carousal.  The  betting  on  both  sides 
had  been  considerable,  and  the  payment  of  these  debts  caused 
the  small  change  to  circulate  pretty  freely  among  the  dis 
pensers  of  eatables  and  drinkables. 

This  night  James  yielded  more  easily  than  ever  before 
to  the  cravings  of  an  appetite  that  began  to  master  him. 

Poor  fellow  !  Deluded  man  !  A  fond,  a  devoted,  a  trust 
ing  wife  waiting  at  home,  watching  the  hands  of  the  clock  as 
they  neared  the  mark  of  twelve,  and  listening  for  thy  foot 
fall  !  Thou,  trusting  in  thine  own  strength,  but  to  learn  thy 
weakness,  lying  senseless  among  thy  drinking  mates  in  the 
hall  of  dissolute  festivity  ! 

Tom  Moore  may  sing  in  praise  of  "  wine  and  its  sparkling 
tide ;  "  but  the  sighing  of  wronged  women  and  their  tears 
shall  toll  the  requiem  of  its  praise. 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

Notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  George,  added  to  those 
of  Josephine,  James  continued  in  the  way  he  had  begun  to 
walk,  and  which  was  leading  him  to  ruin.  The  arguments 
of  the  one,  and  the  tears  of  the  other,  were  equally  unavail 
ing. 

So  far  had  he  proceeded  in  a  downward  course  that  his 
employers  remonstrated ;  and  the  same  arguments  they  had 
used  upon  their  former  clerks  were  urged  upon  his  consider 
ation.  Fearing  the  loss  of  situation,  he  repented,  but  it  was 
only  to  fall  again  before  the  power  of  that  appetite  with 


124  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

• 

which  he  had  tampered  as  with  a  torpid  viper,  which  now 
felt  the  warmth  of  his  embrace,  and  became  a  living,  craving 
creature  within  his  bosom. 

His  old  companions  perceived  the  change  he  was  under 
going,  and,  like  butterflies  that  hovered  about  his  path  in 
sunshine,  left  him  as  clouds  overshadowed  his  way.  But  he 
had  friends  who  would  not  leave  him.  He  had  a  wife  who 
clung  to  him  with  all  the  affection  of  woman's  love,  and  a 
brother  whose  hand  was  ever  extended  to  aid  him. 

James  saw  the  evil  that  threatened  to  overwhelm  him  ; 
yet,  strangely  infatuated,  he  would  not  come  to  a  fixed  deter 
mination  to  reform  so  far  as  to  sign  the  pledge. 

The  sun  never  shone  with  a  brighter  effulgence  than  it 
did  on  the  morning  of  the  24th  of  July,  1849.  The  streets 
of  Boston  were  filled  with  busy  crowds,  and  banners  and 
flags  streamed  from  balconies  and  windows.  Delegates  of 
men  from  the  suburbs  poured  into  the  city,  and  the  sound 
of  music  filled  the  air.  Men,  women,  and  children,  the  rich 
and  the  poor,  the  merchant  and  the  mechanic,  the  American 
and  the  foreigner,  joined  in  the  movement ;  and  a  stranger 
could  not  long  remain  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  some  great 
event  was  to  transpire  that  day  in  the  capital  of  the  Old  Bay 
State.  Crowds  gathered  at  the  corners,  and  lined  the  prin 
cipal  thoroughfares. 

"  He  has  blist  his  own  country,  an'  now  he  will  bliss 
ours,"  said  a  well-dressed  Irishman. 

"An'  that  he  will,"  was  the  response;  "an'  God  bliss 
Father  Mathew !  " 

"Amen,"  said  half  a  dozen  voices. 

f(  He  's  coming  !  "  exclaimed  another.  The  sound  of 
distant  music  was  heard,  and  far  up  the  street  was  seen 
approaching  a  dense  mass  of  people.  White  banners  mingled 
with  the  stars  and  stripes.  Nearer  they  approached,  and 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  125 

more  distinct  became,  to  the  Irishman  and  his  friends,  the 
peals  of  music  and  the  hurras  of  the  multitude. 

THEOBALD  MATHEW,  the  friend  of  Ireland,  was  making 
his  entry  into  Boston  !  Never  man  was  more  gladly  welcome. 
Never  was  man  more  enthusiastically  received.  It  seemed 
as  though  all  men  strove  to  do  him  homage,  for  they  looked 
upon  one  who  was  the  instrument,  unde'r  God,  of  saving  five 
millions  of  human  beings  from  the  greatest  curse  sin  brought 
into  the  world ;  lifting  them,  and  bidding  them  stand  up  as 
their  Maker  intended  they  should. 

The  "  apostle  "  was  seated  in  an  open  barouche,  with  his 
head  uncovered,  bowing  to  the  crowds  of  stout  men  and  fair 
women  that  filled  the  windows  on  either  side,  often  shaking 
hands  with  those  who  pressed  near  him  to  do  so. 

A  young  man  stood  upon  the  side- walk  watching  its  ap 
proach  ;  and  when  the  carriage  in  which  he  was  seated  came 
near  where  he  stood,  he  took  off  his  hat,  pressed  through 
the  assemblage,  and,  urging  his  way  towards  it,  grasped  the 
hand  that  was  extended  to  him.  The  carriage  stopped. 
Father  Mathew  arose,  and,  as  his  hand  lay  upon  the  head 
of  the  young  man,  he  repeated  the  words  of  a  pledge,  which 
the  latter,  in  a  distinct  tone,  repeated  after  him.  At  its 
close,  the  words  "I  do  ! "  were  heard  far  and  near,  and 
James  Clifton  had  taken  the  pledge  ! 

This  was  done  from  no  sudden  impulse.  During  the 
previous  week  he  had  indulged  rather  freely,  and  when  its 
effects  were  over  he  began  for  the  first  time  to  give  serious 
thought  upon  the  question  whether  it  was  not  required  of 
him  to  become  a  pledged  man.  He  was  becoming  convinced 
that  he  was  unsafe.  He  knew  how  often  he  had  fallen,  how 
liable  he  was  to  fall  again,  and  that  it  might  be  never  to 
rise.  He  found  his  companions  did  not  look  upon  him  with  as 
much  respect  as  formerly ;  and  he  determined  to  break  down 
the  pride  of  opinion,  rather  than  have  it  break  him  down. 
11* 


126  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

As  he  thought  of  his  situation  at  Messrs.  Laneville  & 
Co.'s,  he  for  a  moment  drew  back,  yet  it  was  but  for  a 
moment.  He  resolved  to  leave  it,  and  beg  rather  than  con 
tinue  to  disgrace  himself  and  bring  ruin  upon  his  relatives 
and  friends.  life  was  cheered  by  the  thought  that  he  had 
those  around  him  who  would  furnish  him  with  employment 
suited  to  his  mind,  'and  in  the  steady  pursuit  of  which  he 
might  live  well.  This  resolution  was  made  a  few  days  pre 
vious  to  the  twenty-fourth,  but  he  communicated  it  to  no 
one. 

James  hurried  from  the  crowd  that  gathered  around  him, 
and  hastened  to  his  home.  The  glad  news  preceded  him, 
and  his  wife,  meeting  him  at  the  door,  caressed,  blessed  and 
welcomed  him.  George  grasped  his  hand,  and  James,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  asked  pardon  for  the  past,  and  promised 
much  for  the  future. 

"  Once,"  said  he,  "I  refused  to  sign.  I  trusted  to  my 
own  self,  and  thought  because  I  was  young  and  strong  I 
could  resist  temptation.  I  said  I  would  not  make  myself  a 
slave  to  a  pledge,  and  clung  to  my  promise  till  I  found  my 
self  a  slave  to  an  appetite.  I  ask  your  pardon,  George,  for 
the  manner  in  which  I  treated  your  request." 

"  I  grant  it." 

"  Then  /  am  happy,  we  are  happy,  and  the  future  shall 
.redeem  the  past." 

The  door  opened,  and  a  bright-eyed  boy,  bounding  into  the 
room,  sprang  upon  his  father,  and,  with  a  smile,  said,  "  Father, 
I  'm  a  Cadet  of  Temperance  !  We  formed  a  little  society 
this  morning,  'cause  Father  Mathew  has  come  to  Boston. 
We  've  got  six  names,  and  we  are  to  have  more." 

James  kissed  his  child,  and  encouraged  him  to  go  on  in 
the  cause  he  had  so  early  espoused. 

Messrs.  Laneville  &  Co.  engaged  a  new  clerk, —  a  young 
man  of  seventeen,  hopeful,  promising.  He  had  heard  of  the 


THE  WINE-DEALER'S  CLERK.  127 

fate  of  his  predecessors,  of  the  narrow  escape  of  him  whose 
place  he  was  being  trained  to  fill ;  but,  like  them  and  him, 
he  thought  himself  stronger  than  the  tempter  at  his  side. 
That  firm  is  in  the  home-desolating  business  to-day,  though 
James  has  used  much  endeavor  to  induce  them  to  relinquish 
it.  The  young  man  is  there  to-day,  open  to  temptations 
which  have  conquered  many  strong  men,  have  destroyed 
many  mighty.  The  pledge  is  with  us  to-day,  open  for  those 
who  have  fallen,  for  those  who  yet  stand, —  an  instrument 
of  God,  in  human  hands,  to  rescue  the  one  and  to  preserve 
the  other. 


ANGELINA. 

BLUE-EYED  child,  with  flaxen  ringlets, 

'Neath  my  window  played,  one  day  ; 
And  its  tiny  song  of  gladness, 

Sounded  like  an  angel's  lay. 
Roses  bright  in  beauty  blossomed 

Round  the  path  the  cherub  trod 
Yet  it  seemed  that  child  was  fairest, 

Freshest  from  the  hand  of  God. 

Watched  I  her  till  hour  of  sunset 

Told  me  of  the  coming  night, 
And  the  sun  o'er  rock  and  mountain 

Shed  its  flood  of  golden  light. 
Yet  she  gambolled,  though  the  dew-drops 

Fell  upon  her  thick  and  fast ; 
Fearing  ill,  I  went  and  told  her,  — 

"  Dearest  child,  the  day  hath  past : 

"  Haste  thee  to  thy  home,  —  there  waiting 

Is  thy  parent,  thee  to  bless." 
Then  she  hasted  from  the  play-ground, 

To  her  mother's  fond  caress. 
Stars  shone  forth  in  all  their  splendor, 

And  the  moon  with  silver  light 
Rose  in  beauty,  and  presided 

Queen  o'er  all  the  hosts  of  night. 

Days  had  passed  ;  I  had  not  seen  her, 
Had  not  heard  her  merry  laugh, 

Nor  those  joyous  tones  that  told  me 
Of  the  joy  her  epirit  quaffed. 


ANGELINA.  129 

Vain  I  asked  whence  Angelina 

Had  departed,  —  none  could  tell ; 
Feared  I  then  that  sorrow  gathered 

O'er  the  child  I  loved  so  well. 

Funeral  train  passed  by  my  window,  — 

Banished  were  all  thoughts  of  mirth  ; 
And  I  asked  of  one  who  lingered, 

"  Who  hath  passed  to  heaven  from  earth?  " 
In  his  eye  a  tear-drop  glistened, 

As  he,  turning,  to  me  said, 
"  Heaven  now  holds  another  angel, — 

Little  Angelina  's  dead  !  " 

*«• 

I  could  scarce  believe  the  tidings, 

Till  I  stood  above  her  grave, 
And  beheld  those  flaxen  ringlets, 

That  so  late  did  buoyant  wave, 
Lie  beside  a  face  whose  features 

Still  in  death  did  sweetly  smile 
And  methought  angelic  beauty 

Lingered  on  her  cheeks  the  while. 

At  the  pensive  hour  of  twilight, 

Oft  do  angel-footsteps  tread 
Near  her  grave,  and  flowers  in  beauty 

Blossom  o'er  the  early  dead  ; 
And  a  simple  marble  tablet 

Thence  doth  unassuming  rise, 
And  these  simple  words  are  on  it,  — 

"  Here  our  Angelina  lies." 

Oft  at  night,  when  others  slumber, 

One  bends  o'er  that  holy  spot ; 
And  the  tear-drops  fall  unnumbered 

O'er  her  sad  yet  happy  lot. 
Friends,  though  oft  they  mourn  her  absence, 

Do  in  meek  submission  bow ; 
For  a  voice  from  heaven  is  whispering, 

"  Angelina  's  happy  now." 


130  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


FAREWELL,  MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

AVritten  for  KAH-GE-GA-GAH-BOWH,  a  representative  from  the  North-west 
Tribes  of  American  Indians  to  the  Peace  Convention  in  Frankfort-on-the- 
Maine,  Germany;  and  recited  by  him  on  board  the  British  steamship 
Niagara,  at  the  hour  of  sailing  from  Boston,  July  10th,  1850. 

THE  day  is  brightening  which  we  long  have  sought ; 

I  see  its  early  light  and  hail  its  dawn  ; 
The  gentle  voice  of  Peace  my  ear  hath  caught, 

And  from  my  forest-home  I  greet  the  morn. 
Here,  now,  I  meet  you  with  a  brother's  hand — 

Bid  you  farewell  —  then  speed  me  on  my  way 
To  join  the  white  men  in  a  foreign  land, 

And  from  the  dawn  bring  on  the  bright  noon-day. 
Noon-day  of  Peace  !     0,  glorious  jubilee, 
When  all  mankind  are  one,  from  sea  to  sea. 

Farewell,  my  native  land,  rock,  hill,  and  plain ! 

River  and  lake,  and  forest-home,  adieu  ! 
Months  shall  depart  ere  I  shall  tread  again 

Amid  your  scenes,  and  be  once  more  with  you. 
I  leave  thee  now  ;  but  wheresoe'er  I  go, 

Whatever  scenes  of  grandeur  meet  my  eyes, 
My  heart  can  but  one  native  country  know, 

And  that  the  fairest  land  beneath  the  skies. 
America !  farewell,  thou  art  that  gem, 
Brightest  and  fairest  in  earth's  diadem. 

Land  where  my  fathers  chased  the  fleeting  deer ; 

Land  whence  the  smoke  of  council-fires  arose  ; 
Land  whose  own  warriors  never  knew  a  fear  ; 

Land  where  the  mighty  Mississippi  flows ; 
Land  whose  broad  surface  spreads  from  sea  to  sea  ; 

Land  where  Niagara  thunders  forth  God's  praise ;  — 
May  Peace  and  Plenty  henceforth  dwell  with  thee, 

And  o'er  thee  War  no  more  its  banner  raise  ! 
Adieu,  my  native  land,  —  hill,  stream,  and  dell ! 
The  hour  hath  come  to  part  us,  —  fare  thee  well. 


UNLEARNED   TO   LOVE  —  WHAT   WAS  IT  ?     .         131 


UNLEARNED    TO    LOVE. 

HE  hath  unlearned  to  love  ;  for  once  he  loved 

A  being  whom  his  soul  almost  adored, 

And  she  proved  faithless ;  turned  in  scorn  upon 

His  heart's  affections  ; .  to  another  gave 

The  love  she  once  did  pledge  as  all  his  own. 

And  now  he  doth  not  love.     Within  his  heart 

Hate  dwells  in  sullen  silence.     His  soul  broods 

Over  its  wrongs,  over  deluded  hopes. 

Fancy  no  more  builds  airy  castles. 

Amid  the  crowd  he  passes  on  alone. 

The  branches  wave  no  more  to  please  his  eye, 

And  the  wind  singeth  no  sweet  songs  to  him. 

The  murmuring  brook  but  murmurs  discontent, 

And  all  his  life  is  death  since  Love  hath  fled. 

0 ,  who  shall  count  his  sorrows  ?  who  shall  make 
An  estimate  of  his  deep,  burning  woes, 
And  place  them  all  in  order,  rank  on  rank  ? 
Language  is  weak  to  tell  the  heart's  deep  wrongs. 
We  think,  and  muse,  and  in  our  endless  thought 
We  strive  to  grasp,  with  all  the  mind's  vast  strength. 
The  undefinable  extent  of  spirit  grief, 
And  fail  to  accomplish  the  herculean  task. 


WHAT  ¥AS   IT? 

IT  was  a  low,  black,  miserable  place ; 
Its  roof  was  rotting ;  and  above  it  hung 
A  cloud  of  murky  vapor,  sending  down 
Intolerable  stench  on  all  around. 

The  place  was  silent,  save  the  creaking  noise, 
The  steady  motion  of  a  dozen  pumps, 
That  labored  all  the  day,  nor  ceased  at  night. 


132          •  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

Methought  in  it  I  heard  a  hundred  groans  ; 
Dropping  of  widows'  tears,  and  cries  of  orphans ; 
Shrieks  of  some  victim  to  the  fiendish  lust 
Of  men  for  gold  ;  woe  echoing  wi.-, 
And  sighs,  deep,  long-drawn  sighs  of  dark  despair. 

Around  the  place  a  dozen  hovels  stood, 
Black  with  the  smoke  and  steam  that  bathed  them  all ; 
Their  windows  had  no  glass,  but  rags  and  boards, 
Torn  hats  and  such-likc,  filled  the  paneless  sash. 
Beings,  once  men  and  women,  in  and  out 
Passed  and  repassed  from  darkness  forth  to  light ; 
And  children,  ragged,  dirty,  and  despised, 
Clung  to  them.     Children  !  heaven's  early  flowers, 
In  their  spring-time  of  life,  blighted  and  lost ! 
Children  !  those  jewels  of  a  parent's  crown, 
Crushed  to  the  ground  and  crumbled  to  the  dust. 
Children  !     Heaven's  representatives  to  man, 
Made  menial  slaves  to  watch  at  Evil's  gate, 
And  errand-boys  to  run  at  Sin's  command. 

I  asked  why  thus  it  was  ;  and  one  old  man 
Pushed  up  the  visor  of  his  cap,  and  said  : 
"  That  low,  black  building  is  the  cause  of  all." 
And  would  you  know  what  't  was  that  wrought  such  ill, 
And  what  the  name  of  that  low  building  was? 
Go  to  thy  neighbor,  read  to  him  these  lines, 
And  if  he  does  not  tell  thee  right,  at  first, 
Then  come  to  me  and  you  shall  know  its  name. 


LETTERS    AND    LETTER-WRITING. 

THERE  is  nothing  from  which  more  real  enjoyment  can  be 
derived  than  the  art  of  letter-writing.  All  praise  to  the  in 
ventive  genius  that  gave  to  man  a  written  language,  and  with 
it  the  implements  with  which  to  talk  across  the  world  !  Did 
you  ever  think,  reader,  what  a  world  this  would  be  without 
pen,  ink,  and  paper?  Then,  the  absence  of  friends  were 
painful,  and,  as  we  grasped  the  friendly  hand,  bade  our  ac 
quaintances  "good -by,"  and  saw  the  last,  far-distant  wave 
of  the  parting  signal,  we  might  turn  aside  to  weep,  as  we 
thought  we  should  never  hear  from  them  till  we  met  face  to 
face  —  perhaps  never.  But,  as  it  is,  when  friends  leave,  we 
expect  a  message  from  their  hearts  soon,  to  solace  our  own. 
How  we  watch,  and  how  we  hope  !  What  a  welcome  rap  is 
the  postman's !  With  what  eagerness  we  loosen  the  seal ; 
with  what  pleasure  we  read,  from  date  to  signature,  every 
word ! 

It  may  not  be  uninteresting,  nor  wholly  uninstructive,  to 
examine  the  various  modes  of  letter-writing,  and  to  spend  a 
brief  half-hour  with  those  who  have  by  their  letters  made 
grave  or  gay  impressions  on  the  public  mind. 

Some  write  letters  with  great  ease ;  others,  with  great  diffi 
culty.  Miss  Seward  was  an  inveterate  letter-writer.  There 
have  been  published  six  large  volumes  of  letters  written  by 
her ;  besides  these,  she  left  twelve  quarto  volumes  of  letters 
to  a  publisher  of  London,  and  these,  it  is  said,  are  but  a 
twelfth  part  of  her  correspondence.  It  seems  as  though  she 
12 

' 


184  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

must  have  written  nothing  but  letters,  so  many  and  various 
were  they ;  but  her  fame  as  an  authoress  will  convince  any 
one  that  her  industry  overcame  what  might  seem  an  impossi 
bility,  and  that  her  genius  in  this  particular  resembled  that 
of  the  steam-writing  machine,  Dumas,  of  the  present  time. 

Lord  Peterborough  had  such  a  faculty  for  this  kind  of 
composition,  that,  when  ambassador  to  Turin,  according  to 
Pope,  who  says  he  was  a  witness  of  the  performance,  he  em 
ployed  nine  amanuenses,  who  were  seated  in  a  room,  around 
whom  Lord  Peterborough  walked  and  dictated  to  each  what 
he  should  write.  These  nine  wrote  to  as  many  different  per 
sons,  upon,  perhaps,  nine  times  as  many  subjects ;  yet  the 
ambassador  retained  in  his  mind  the  connection  of  each  letter 
so  completely  as  to  close  each  in  a  highly-finished  and  appro 
priate  manner. 

These  facts  show  the  ease  and  rapidity  of  some  writers. 
In  contradistinction  to  these  are  the  letters  of  many  emi 
nent  Latin  writers,  who  actually  bestowed  several  months  of 
close  attention  upon  a  single  letter.  Mr.  Owen  says  :  "  Such 
is  the  defect  of  education  among  the  modern  Roman  ladies. 
that  they  are  not  troubled  to  keep  up  any  correspondence, 
because  they  cannot  write.  A  princess  of  great  beauty,  at 
Naples,  'caused  an  English  lady  to  be  informed  that  she  was 
learning  to  write  ;  and  hoped,  in  the  course  of  time,  to  ac 
quire  the  art  of  correspondence." 

There  are  many  persons  with  whom  it  is  the  most  difficult 
task  of  their  existence  to  write  a  letter.  They  follow  the  old 
Latin  writers,  and  make  a  labor  of  what  with  others  is  a  rec 
reation.  They  begin  with  the  _ stereotyped  words,  "  I  take 
my  pen  in  hand,"  as  though  a  letter  could  be  written  with 
out  doing  so.  Then  follows,  "to  inform  you  that  I  am  well, 
and  hope  this  will  find  you  the  same."  There  is  a  period  — 
a  full  stop ;  and  there  are  instances  of  persons  going  no  fur 
ther,  but  closing  with,  "  This  from  your  friend.  JOHN  SHORT." 


LETTERS    AND    LETTER-WRITING.  135 

This  "difficulty  "  arises  not  from  an  inability,  but  from  an 
excessive  nicety  —  a  desire  to  write  a  prize  essay,  instead  of 
a  good,  sociable,  familiar  letter.  To  make  a  letter  interest 
ing,  the  writer  must  transfer  his  thoughts  from  his  mind  to 
his  paper,  as  truly  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  place  the  likeness 
of  an  object  in  front  of  the  lens  through  which  it  acts  upon 
the  silvered  plate.  Seneca  says,  "I  would  have  my  letters 
be  like  my  discourses  when  we  sit  or  walk  together,  unstud 
ied  and  easy." 

Willis'  letters  are  of  a  kind  always  "free  and  easy." 
His  "Letters  from  Under  a  Bridge"  are  admirable  speci 
mens  of  letters  as  they  should  be  ;  and  his  "  Pencillings  by 
the  Way  "  owe  much  of  their  popularity  to  their  easy,  famil 
iar,  talkative  style.  The  letters  of  Cicero  and  Pliny,  of  an 
cient,  and  Swift,  Pope,  Arbuthnot,  Madame  de  Sevigne,  and 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague,  of  modern  times,  are  generally 
received  as  some  of  the  best  specimens  extant  of  epistolary 
composition.  The  letters  of  Charles  Lamb  are  a  series  of 
brilliances,  though- of  kaleidoscope  variety;  they  have  wit 
without  buffoonery,  and  seriousness  without  melancholy.  He 
closes  one  of  them  by  subscribing  himself  his  friend's  "af 
flicted,  headachey,  sorethroaty,  humble  servant,  CHARLES 
LAMB." 

Some  men,  and  women  too,  of  eminence,  have  written  curi 
osities'  in  the  form  of  correspondence.  The  letter  of  the 
mother  of  Foote  is  a  good  example  of  this  kind  of  correspond 
ence.  Mrs.  Foote  became  embarrassed,  and,  being  unable  to 
meet  a  demand,  was  placed  in  prison  ;  whereupon  she  wrote 
to  Mr.  Foote  as  follows : 

"DEAR  SAM  :  I  am  in  prison  for  debt;  come,  and  assist 
your  loving  mother,  E.  FOOTE." 

It  appears  that  "  Sanf "  was  equally  entangled  in  the 
meshes  of  the  law,  for  he  answered  as  follows  : 


136  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

"DEAR  MOTHER:  —  So  am  I;  which  prevents  his  duty 
being  paid  to  his  loving  mother  by  her  affectionate  son, 

"  SAM  FOOTE. 

"  P.  S.  —  I  'have  sent  my  attorney  to  assist  you  ;  in  the 
mean  time,  let  us  hope  for  better  days." 

These  laconic  epistles  are  -well  matched  by  that  of  a  French 
lady,  who  wrote  to  her  husband  this  missive  of  intelligence, 
affection,  &c.,  &c. : 

"  I  write  to  you  because  I  have  nothing  to  do  ;  I  end  my 
letter  because  I  have  nothing  to  say." 

But  these  are  left  far  in  the  rear  by  the  correspondence  of 
two  Quakers,  the  one  living  in  Edinburgh,  the  other  in  London. 
The  former,  wishing  to  know  whether  there  was  anything  new 
in  London,  wrote  in  the  corner  of  a  letter-sheet  a  small  in 
terrogation  note,  and  sent  it  to  his  friend.  In  due  time  he 
received  an  answer.  lie  opened  the  sheet  and  found,.sknply, 
0,  signifying  that  there  was  none. 

In  the  London  Times  of  January  3d,  1820,  is  the  fol 
lowing,  purporting  to  be  a  copy  of  a  letter  sent  to  a  medical 
gentleman : 

"  CER:  Yole  oblige  me  uf  yole  kum  un  ce  me.  I  hev 
a  Bad  kowld,  am  Hill  in  my  Bow  Hills,  and  hev  lost  my 
Happy  Tight." 

William  Cowper,  the  poet,  being  on  very  familiar  terms 
with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton,  amused  himself  and  his  friend 
with  a  letter,  of  which  the  following  is  a  copy : 

"  MY  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  am  going  to  send,  what, 
when  you  have  read,  you  may  scratch  your  head,  and  say,  I 
suppose,  there  's  nobody  knows,  whether  what  I  have  got  be 
verse  or  not;  by  the  tune  and  the  time,  it  ought  to  be 
rhyme ;  but  if  it  be,  did  you  ever  see,  of  late  or  of  yore,  such 
a  ditty  before  1 


LETTERS   AND    LETTER-WRITING.  137 

"  I  have  writ  Charity,  not  for  popularity,  but  as  well  as  I 
could,  in  hopes  to  do  good ;  and  if  the  reviewers  should  say, 
'  To  be  sure  the  gentleman's  muse  wears  methodist  shoes, 
you  may  know  by  her  pace,  and  talk  about  grace,  that  she 
and  her  bard  have  little  regard  for  the  taste  and  fashions, 
and  ruling  passions,  and  hoydening  play,  of  the  modern  day ; 
and  though  she  assume  a  borrowed  plume,  and  now  and  then 
wear  a  tittering  air,  't  is  only  her  plan  to  catch,  if  she  can, 
the  giddy  and  gay,  as  they  go  that  way,  by  a  production  on 
a  new  construction ;  she  has  baited  her  trap,  in  hopes  to  snap 
all  that  may  come,  with  a  sugar-plum.'  His  opinion  in  this 
will  not  be  amiss ;  't  is  what  I  intend  my  principal  end ;  and 
if  I  succeed,  and  folks  should  read,  till  a  few  are  brought  to 
a  serious  thought,  I  shall  think  .1  am  paid  for  all  I  have 
said,  and  all  I  have  done,  though  I  have  run,  many  a  time, 
after  rhyme,  as -far  as  from  Ijcnce,  to  the  end  of  my  sense, 
and,  by  hook  or  crook,  write  another  book,  if  I  live  and  am 
here,  another  year. 

"  I  heard  before  of  a  room,  with  a  floor  laid  upon  springs, 
and  such  like  things,  with  so  much  art,  in  every  part,  that 
when  you  went  in,  you  was  forced  to  begin  a  minuet  pace, 
with  an  air  and  a  grace,  swimming  about,  now  in  and  now 
out,  with  a  deal  of  state,  in  a  figure  of  eight,  without  pipe  or 
string,  or  any  such  thing  ;  and  now  I  have  writ,  in  a  rhyming 
fit,  what  will  make  you  dance,  and,  as  you  advance,  will  keep 
you  still,  though  against  your  will,  dancing  away,  alert  and 
gay,  till  you  come  to  an  end  of  what  I  have  penned  ;  which 
that  you  may  do  ere  madam  and  you  are  quite  worn  out  with 
jigging  about,  I  take  my  leave ;  and  here  you  receive  a  bow 
profound,  down  to  the  ground,  from  your  humble  me, 

"W.  C.'; 

At  one  of  those  famous  coteries,  so  fashionable  in  the  time 
of  George  Selwyn,  Selwyn  declared  that  a  lady  never  closed  a 
letter  without  a  postscript.     One  of  his  fair  auditors  defended 
12* 


138  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

her  sex  by  saying  that  her  next  letter  should  prove  he  was 
wrong.  Soon  after,  Selwyn  received  a  letter  from  the  lady, 
in  which,  after  the  name,  was  "P.  S.  Who  is  right  now,  you 
or  I?" 

"We  have  met  the  enemy,  and  they  are  ours"  is  an 
example  for  naval  letters.  Commodore  Walton's  letter,  by 
which  he  gave  information  of  his  capture  of  a  number  of 
Spanish  vessels  of  war,  was  as  follows  : 

"  We  have  taken  or  destroyed  all  the  enemy's  ships  or 
vessels  on  the  coast,  as  per  margin." 

General  Taylor's  letters  are  of  the  same  class, —  brief 
and  to  the  point. 

As  a  specimen  of  i^ra-familiarity,  see  the  Duke  of  Buck 
ingham's  letter  to  King  James  the  First,  which  he  commences 
as  follows:  "DEAR  DAD  AND  GOSSIP,"  and  concludes 
thus:  —  "  Your  Majesty's  m6*st  humble  slave  and  dog, 

"  STINIE." 

Some  letters  have  been  distinguished  for  a  play  upon 
words.  The  following  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  by 
one  Zebel  Rock,  a  stone-cutter,  to  a  young  lady  for  whom 
he  cherished  a  love  somewhat  more  than  Platonic : 

"  DIVINE  FLINT:  Were  you  not.  harder  than  Porphyry 
or  Agate,  the  Chisel  of  my  love,  drove  by  the  Mallet  of  my 
fidelity,  would  have  made  some  impression  on  thee.  I,  that 
have  shaped  as  I  pleased  the  most  untoward  of  substances, 
hoped  by  the  Compass  of  reason,  the  Plummet  of  discretion, 
the  Saw  of  constancy,  the  soft  File  o^Jcijrdhess,  and  the  Polish 
of  good  words,  to  have  modelled  you  into  one  of  the  prettiest 
Statues  in  the  world ;  but,  alas !  I  find  you  are  a  Flint,  that 
strikes  fire,  and  sets  my  soul  in  a  blaze,  though  your  heart 
is  as  cold  as  marble.  Pity  my  case,  pray,  madam,  for  I  know 
not  what  I  say  or  do.  If  I  go  to  make  a  Dragon,  I  strike 
out  a  Cupid ;  instead  of  an  Apothecary's  Mortar,  I  make  a 


LETTERS   AND   LETTER-WRITING.  139 

Church  Font  for  Baptism ;  and,  dear  Pillar  of  my  hopes, 
Pedestal  of  my  comfort,  and  Cornice  of  my  joy,  take  com 
passion  upon  me,  for  upon  your  pity  I  build  all  my  hope, 
and  will,  if  fortunate,  erect  Statues,  Obelisks  and  Pyramids, 
to  your  generosity." 

As  a  specimen  of  alliteration  the  following  may  be  consid 
ered  a  fair  off-hand  epistle  of  love  : 

"ADORED  AND  ANGELIC  AMELIA:  Accept  An  Ardent 
And  Artless  Amorist's  Affections ;  Alleviate  An  Anguished 
Admirer's  Alarms,  And  Answer  An  Amorous  Applicant's 
Avowed  Ardor.  Ah,  Amelia  !  All  Appears  An  Awful  As 
pect  ;  Ambition,  Avarice,  And  Arrogance,  Alas,  Are  Attract 
ive  Allurements,  And  Abuse  An  Ardent  Attachment. 
Appease  An  Aching  And  Affectionate  Adorer's  Alarms, 
And  Anon  Acknowledge  Affianced  Albert's  Alliance  As 
Agreeable  And  Acceptable.  Anxiously  Awaiting  An  Affec 
tionate  And  Affirmative  Answer,  Accept  An  Ardent  Admir 
er's  Aching  Adieu.  ALBERT." 

The  custom  of  espionage  among  some  nations,  which  led 
the  government  officials  to  open  all  letters  supposed  to  con 
tain  matters  at  variance  with  the  plans  and  purposes  of  their 
masters,  induced  the  inventive  to  contrive  various  means  of 
correspondence. 

One  of  the  most  singular  of  these  was  that  adopted  by 
Histaus,  the  Milesian,  as  related  by  Herodotus.  Histaus 
was  "  kept  by  Darius  at  Susa,  under  an  honorable  pretence, 
and,  despairing  of  his  return  home,  unless  he  could  find  out 
some  way  that  he  might  be  sent  to  sea,  he  purposed  to  send 
to  Aristagoras,  who  was  his  substitute  at  Miletum,  to  per 
suade  his  revolt  from  Darius ;  but,  knowing  that  all  passages 
were  stopped  and  studiously  watched,  he  took  this  course  : 
he  got  a  trusty  servant  of  his,  the  hair  of  whose  head  he 
caused  to  be  shaved  off,  and  then,  upon  his  bald  head,  he 


140  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

wrote  his  mind  to  Aristagoras;  kept  him  privately  about 
him,  till  his  hair  was  somewhat  grown,  and  then  bid  him 
haste  to  Aristagoras,  and  bid  him  cause  him  to  be  shaved 
again,  and  then  upon  his  head  he  should  find  what  his  lord 
had  written  to  him." 

A  volume  might  be  written  of  the  Curiosities  of  Letter- 
writing,  and  it  would  be  by  no  means  an  uninteresting  pro 
duction.  Years  ago,  when  New  England  missionaries  first 
taught  the  wild  men  of  the  South  Sea  Islands,  it  so  happened 
that  one  of  the  teachers  wished  to  communicate  with  a  friend, 
and  having  no  pen,  ink  and  paper  at  hand,  he  picked  up  a 
chip  and  wrote  with  a  pencil  his  message.  A  native  con 
veyed  it,  and,  receiving  some  article  in  return,  he  thought 
the  chip  endowed  with  some  miraculous  power,  and  could  he 
have  obtained  it  would  doubtless  have  treasured  it  as  a  god, 
and  worshipped  it.  And  so  would  seem  to  us  this  invalua 
ble  art  of  letter- writing,  were  we  in  like  ignorance.  We 
forget  to  justly  appreciate  a  blessing  while  we  have  it  in 
constant  use ;  but  let  us  be  for  a  short  time  deprived  of  it, 
and  then  we  lament  its  loss  and  realize  its  worth.  Deprive 
mankind  of  pen,  ink  and  paper,  obliterate  from  the  human 
mind  all  knowledge  of  letter- writing.  —  then  estimate,  if 
you  can,  the  loss  that  would  accrue. 

The  good  resulting  from  a  general  intercommunication  of 
thought  among  the  people  has  brought  about  a  great  reduc 
tion  in  the  rates  of  postage.  We  look  forward  to  the  time 
when  the  tens  of  millions  now  expended  in  war,  and  invested 

in  the  ammunition  of  death,   shall  be  directed  into  other 

...,. 
channels,  and  postage  shall  be  free.     What  better  defence  for 

our  nation  than  education  ?  It  is  better  than  forts  and 
vessels  of  war;  better  than  murderous  guns,  powder  and 
ball.  Hail  to  the  day  when  there  shall  be  no  direct  tax  on 
the  means  of  education  ! 


A  VISION   OF   REALITY. 

I  HAD  a  dream :  Methought  one  came 

And  bade  me  with  him  go  ; 
I  followed,  till,  above  the  world, 

I  wondering  gazed  below. 
One  moment,  horror  filled  my  breast ; 

Then,  shrinking  from  the  sight, 
I  turned  aside,  and  sought  for  rest, 

Half  dying  with  affright. 

My  guide  with  zeal  still  urged  me  ^n  ; 
"  See,  see  !  "  said  he,  "  what  sin  hath  done ; 
How  mad  ambition  fills  each  breast, 
And  mortals  spurn  their  needed  rest, 
And  all  their  lives  and  fortunes  spend 
To  gain  some  darling,  wished-for  end  ; 
And  scarce  they  see  the  long-sought  prize, 
When  each  to  grasp  it  fails  and  dies." 

Once  more  I  looked  :    in  a  lonely  room, 
On  a  pallet  of  straw,  were  lying 

A  mother  and  child  ;  no  friends  were  near, 
Yet  that  mother  and  child  were  dying. 

A  sigh  arose  ;  she  looked  above, 

And  she  breathed  forth,  "  I   forgive  ;" 

She  kissed  her  child,  threw  back  her  head, 
And  the  mother  ceased  to  live. 

The  child's  blue  eyes  were  raised  to  watch 
Its  mother's  smile  of  love ; 


142  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

She  was  not  there,  —  her  child  she  saw 
From  her  spirit-home  above. 

An  hour  passed  by  :  that  child  had  gone 
From  earth  and  all  its  harms  ; 

Yet,  as  in  sleep,  it  nestling  lay 
In  its  dead  mother's  arms. 

I  asked  my  guide,  "  What  doth  this  mean?  " 
He  spake  not  a  word,  but  changed  the  scene. 

I  stood  where  the  busy  throng 
Was  hurrying  by  ;  all  seemed  intent, 
As  on  some  weighty  mission  sent ; 
And,  as  I  asked  what  all  this  meant, 

A  drunkard  passed  by. 

He  spake,  —  I  listened ;  thus  spake  he : 
"  Rum,  thou  hast  been  a  curse  to  me ; 
My  wife  is  dead,  —  my  darling  child, 
Who,  when  't  was  born,  so  sweetly  smiled, 
And  Jfemed  to  ask,  in  speechless  prayer, 
A  father's  love,  a  father's  care, — 

He,  he,  too,  now  is  gone ! 
How  can  I  any  longer  live  ? 
What  joy  to  me  can  earth  now  give  ? 
I  've  drank  full  deep  from  sorrow's  cup, — 
When  shall  I  drink  its  last  dregs  up  ? 
When  will  the  last,  last  pang  be  felt  ? 
When  the  last  blow  on  me  be  dealt  ? 

Would  I  had  ne'er  been  born !  " 

As  thus  he  spake,  a  gilded  coach 

In  splendor  passed  by ; 
And  from  within  a  man  looked  forth, — 

The  drunkard  caught  his  eye. 
Then,  with  a  wild  and  frenzied  look, 

He,  trembling,  to  it  ran  ; 
He  stayed  the  rich  man's  carriage  there, 

And  said,  "  Thou  art  the  man! 


A   VISION    OF  REALITY.  143 

"  Yes,  thou  the  man !   You  bade  me  come, 
You  took  my  gold,  you  gave  me  rum; 
You  bade  me  in  the  gutter  lie, 
My  wife  and  child  you  caused  to  die ; 
You  took  their  bread,  —  't  was  justly  theirs  ; 
You,  cunning,  laid  round  me  your  snares, 
Till  I  fell  in  them  ;  then  you  crushed, 
And  robbed  me,  as  my  cries  you  hushed  ; 
You  've  bound  me  close  in  misery's  thrall ; 
Now,  take  a  drunkard's  curse  and  fall !  " 

A  mom3nt  passed,  and  all  was  o'er,  — 
lie  who  'd  sold  rum  would  sell  no  more 
And  Justice  seemed  on  earth  to  dwell, 
When  by  his  victim's  hand  he  fell. 
Yet,  when  the  trial  came,  she  fled, 
And  Law  would  have  the  avenger  dead. 
The  gilded  coach  may  rattle  by, 
Men  too  may  drink,  and  drunkards  die, 
And  widows'  tears  may  daily  fall, 
And  orphans'  voices  daily  call,  — 

Yet  these  are  all  in  vain  ; 
The  dealer  sells,  and  glass  by  glass 
He  tempts  the  man  to  ruin  pass, 

And  piles  on  high  his  slain. 

His  fellows  fall  by  scores,  —  what  then  ? 

He,  being  rich  (though  rich  by  fraud) , 
Is  honored  by  his  fellow-men, 

Who  bend  the  knee  and  call  him  "  lord." 

Again  I  turned ; 
Enough  I  'd  learned 
Of  all  the  misery  sin  hath  brought;  . 
I  strove  to  leave  the  fearful  spot, 
And  wished  the  scene  might  be  forgot, 
'T  was  so  with  terror  fraught. 

I  wished  to  go, 
No  more  to  know. 


144  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

I  turned  me,  but  no  guide  stood  there  ; 
Alone,  I  shrieked  in  wild  dismay, 
When,  lo !  the  vision  passed  away, — 

I  found  me  seated  in  my  chair. 

The  morning  sun  was  shining  bright, 
Fair  children  gambolled  in  my  sight ; 
A  rose-bush  in  my  window  stood, 

And  shed  its  fragrance  all  around  ; 
My  eye  saw  naught  but  fair  and  good, 

My  ear  heard  naught  but  joyous  sound. 

I  asked  me,  can  it  be  on  earth 
Such  scenes  of  horror  have  their  birth, 
As  those  that  in  my  vision  past, 
And  on  my  mind  their  shadows  cast  ? 

Can  it  be  true,  that  men  do  pour 
Foul  poison  forth  for  sake  of  gold  ? 

And  men  lie  weltering  in  their  gore, 
Led  on  by  that  their  brethren  sold  ? 

Doth  man  so  bend  the  supple  knee 
To  Mammon's  shrine,  he  never  hears 

The  voice  of  conscience,  nor  doth  see 
His  ruin  in  the  wealth  he  rears  ? 

Such  questions  it  were  vain  to  ask, 

For  Reason  whispers,  "  It  is  so  ;" 
While  some  in  fortune's  sunshine  bask, 

Others  lie  crushed  beneath  their  woe. 
And  men  do  sell,  and  men  do  pour, 

And  for  their  gold  return  men  death  ; 
Though  wives  and  children  them  implore, 

With  tearful  eyes  and  trembling  breath, 
And  hearts  witli  direst  anguish  riven, 

No  more  to  sell, —  't  is  all  in  vain  ; 
They,  urged  to  death,  by  avarice  driven, 

But  laugh  and  turn  to  sell  again. 


JEWELS   OF   THE    HEART.  145 


JEWELS   OF   THE   HEART. 

THERE  are  jewels  brighter  far 
Than  the  sparkling  diamonds  are  ; 
Jewels  never  wrought  by  art,  — 
Nature  forms  them  in  the  heart ! 

"Would  ye  know  the  names  they  hold  ? 
Ah  !  they  never  can  be  told 
In  the  language  mortals  speak  ! 
Human  words  are  far  too  weak 

Yet,  if  you  would  really  know 
What  these  jewels  are,  then  go 
To  some  low,  secluded  cot, 
Where  the  poor  man  bears  his  lot ! 
Or,  to  where  the  sick  and  dying 
'Neath  the  ills  of  life  are  sighing. 

And  if  there  some  one  ye  see 

Striving  long  and  patiently 

To  alleviate  the  pain, 

Bring  the  light  of  hope  again  ! 

One  whose  feet  do  lightly  tread, 

One  whose  hands  do  raise  the  head, 

One  who  watches  there  alone, 
Every  motion,  every  tone  ; 
Unaware  an  eye  doth  see 
All  these  acts  of  charity. 

Know  that  in  that  lonely  cot, 
Where  the  wealth  of  earth  is  not, 
These  bright  jewels  will  be  found, 
Shedding  love  and  light  around  ! 

Say,  shall  gems  and  rubies  rare 

With  these  heart-shrined  gems  compare  ? 

13 


146  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

Constancy,  that  will  not  perish, 
But  the  thing  it  loveth  cherish, 
Clinging  to  it  fondly  ever, 
Fainting,  faltering,  wavering,  never  ! 

Trust,  that  will  not  harbor  doubt ; 
Putting  fear  and  shame  to  rout, 
Making  known  how,  free  from  harm, 
Love  may  rest  upon  its  arm. 

Hope,  that  makes  the  future  bright, 
Though  there  come  a  darksome  night ; 
And,  though  dark  despair  seems  nigh, 
Bears  the  soul  up  manfully  ! 

These  are  gems  that  brighter  shine 
Than  they  of  Golconda's  mine. 
Born  amid  love's  fond  caresses, 
Cradled  in  the  heart's  recesses, 
They  will  live  when  earth  is  old, 
Marble  crumble,  perish  gold !  . 

Live  when  ages  shall  have  past, 
While  eternity  shall  last ; 
Be  these  gems  the  wealth  you  share, 
Friends  of  mind,  where'er  you  are  ! 


LIGHT  FROM  A  BETTER  LAND. 

» 

HERE  at  thy  grave  I  stand, 

But  not  in  tears ; 
Light  from  a  better  land 

Banishes  fears. 

Thou  art  beside  me  now, 

AVhispering  peace ; 
Telling  how  happy  thou 

Found  thy  release  ! 


POOE  AND   WEARY.  147 

Thou  art  not  buried  here  ; 

Why  should  I  mourn  ? 
All  that  I  cherished  dear 

Heavenward  hath  gone ! 

Oft  from  that  world  above 

Come  ye  to  this ; 
Breathing  in  strains  of  love 

Unto  me  bliss  ! 


POOR  AND  WEARY! 

Ix  a  low  and  cheerless  cot 
Sat  one  mourning  his  sad  lot ; 
All  day  long  he  'd  sought  for  labor  ; 
All  day  long  his  nearest  neighbor 
Lived  in  affluence  and  squandered 
"Wealth,  while  he  an  outcast  wandered, 
And  the  night  with  shadowy  wing 
Heard  him  this  low  moaning  sing  : 
"  Sad  and  weary,  poor  and  weary, 
Life  to  me  is  ever  dreary !  " 

Morning  came  ;  there  was  no  sound 
Heard  within.     Men  gathered  round, 
Peering  through  the  window-pane  ; 
They  saw  a  form  as  if  't  were  lain 
Out  for  burial.     Stiff  and  gaunt 
Lay  the  man  who  died  in  want. 
And  methought  I  heard  that  day 
Angel  voices  whispering  say, 
"  No  more  sad,  poor  and  weary, 
Life  to  me  no  more  is  dreary  !  " 


THE   BANDBOX  MOVEMENT. 

"  THERE  !  Mr.  McKenzie,  I  declare  !  You  are  the  most 
oncommon,  oncivil  man  I  ever  sot  eyes  on  !  " 

"  Peace,  my  lady  !     I  '11  explain." 

"  Then  do  so." 

"  You  must  know,  then,  that  I  have  a  perfect  hatred  of 
bandboxes, —  so  great,  in  fact,  that  if  I  see  one  on  the  walk, 
I  involuntarily  raise  my  foot  and  kick  it." 

"  So  it  appears,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  McKenzie,  with  a  sig 
nificant  hunch  of  the  right  shoulder. 

"  Therefore,  - 

"  Well,  go  on  !  what  you  waitin'  for?  " 

"  Therefore,  when  I  saw  Arabella's  bandbox  in  the  entry, 
as  I  came  down,  sitting,  as  it  did,  directly  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  I  jumped  on  it,  thinking  I  would  come  over  it  that 
time " 

"  An'  crushed  a  new  spring  bonnet,  that  cost — let  me  see  ?" 

"  No  matter  !  "  said  Mr.  McKenzie  ;  "  that  will  be  in  the 
bill." 

Mr.  McKenzie,  having  said  thus  much,  placed  his  hat  on 
his  head  and  rushed  from  the  house,  fearful  of  another  on 
slaught  of  "  oncommon  oncivilities." 

A  little  shop  at  the  North  End, —  seven  men  seated  round 
said  shop, —  a  small  dog  growling  at  a  large  cat,  a  large  cat 
making  a  noise  resembling  that  produced  by  root-beer  con 
fined  in  a  stone  bottle  by  a  cork  bound  down  with  a  piece  of 
twine.  Reader,  imagine  you  see  and  hear  all  this  ! 


THE  BANDBOX  MOVEMENT.  149 

[Enter  Mr.  McKenzie.]  "  Gentlemen,  something  must 
be  done  to  demolish  the  idea  held  by  the  '  rest  of  mankind  ' 
that  they,  the  women,  cannot  exist  without  owning  as  per 
sonal  property  an  indefinite  number  of  bandboxes.  I  there 
fore  propose  that  we  at  once  organize  for  the  purpose ;  that 
a  committee  be  appointed  to  draft  resolutions,  and  report  a 
name  for  the  confederacy." 

Voted  unanimously;  whereupon,  a  committee  being  ap 
pointed,  after  a  short  session,  reported  the  following 
"whereas,  etc." 

"  Whereas,  WE,  in  our  perambulations  up  and  down  the 
earth,  are  frequently,  oftentimes,  and  most  always,  beset  with 
annoyances  of  various  kinds ;  and,  as  the  greatest,  most  per 
plexing,  most  troublesome  and  iniquitous  of  these,  generally 
assumes  the  shape  of  a  bandbox,  in  a  bag  or  out  of  one ; 
and,  whereas,  our  wives,  our  daughters,  our  sisters,  and  our 
female  acquaintances  generally  and  particularly,  manifest  a 
determination  to  put  said  boxes  in  our  way,  at  all  times,  and 
under  all  circumstances,  therefore 

' '  Resolved,    That  —  we  —  wont  —  stand  —  it  —  any  — 
longer !  !  ! 

"  Resolved,  That  we  form  ourselves  into  a  society  for  the 
purpose  of  annihilating  this  grievous  evil,  and  all  bandboxes, 
of  every  size  and  nature. 

"  Resolved,  That  this  society  be  known  by  the  name  of 
'  The  Bandbox  Extermination  Association.'  ' 

The  chairman  of  the  committee  made  a  few  remarks,  in 
which  he  stated  that,  in  the  performance  of  the  duties  which 
would  devolve  upon  the  members,  they  would,  doubtless,  meet 
with  some  opposition.  "  But,  never  mind,"  said  he;  "it  is 
a  glorious  cause,  and  if  we  get  the  tongs  at  one  time,  and  the 
hearth-brush  another  time,  let  'em  come  !  "  He  defined  the 
duties  of  members  to  be, —  first  and  foremost,  to  pay  six  and 
a  quarter  cents  to  defray  expenses ;  to  demolish  a  bandbox 
13* 


150  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

wherever  and  whenever  there  should  be  one ;  (for  instance, 
if  a  fat  woman  was  racing  for  the  cars,  with  a  bandbox  in  her 
arms,  that  box  should  be  forcibly  taken  and  burned  on  the 
spot,  or  whittled  into  such  minute  particles  that  it  could  no 
more  be  seen ;  if,  in  an  omnibus  warranted  to  seat  twelve, 
fifteen  men  are  congregated,  and  an  individual  attempts  to 
enter  with  a  bandbox,  the  box  shall  have  notice  to  quit.) 

"The  manner  of  demolition,"  he  said,  further,  "might 
be  variously  defined.  If  the  owner  was  a  nervous  lady,  to 
kick  the  box  would  wound  her  feelings,  and  it  were  best  to 
apparently  unintentionally  seat  yourself  on  it ;  then  beg  a 
thousand  pardons,  and,  as  you,  in  your  efforts  to  make  it 
better,  only  make  it  worse,  give  it  up  in  despair,  and  console 
the  owner  by  a  reference  to  spilt  milk  and  the  uselessness  of 
crying.  As  to  the  contents  of  the  boxes,  they  must  look  out 
for  themselves.  If  they  get  injured,  hint  that  they  should 
keep  out  of  bad  company." 

The  chairman  sat  down,  and,  the  question  being  put,  it  was 
more  than  unanimously  voted  (inasmuch  as  one  man  voted 
with  both  hands*)  to  adopt  the  resolutions,  the  name,  and 
all  the  remarks  that  had  been  made  in  connection  with  them. 
Members  paid  their  assessments,  and  with  a  hearty  good  will. 

Thus  we  see  how  "oaks  from  acorns  grow."  Mrs. 
McKerizie's  fretfulness  on  account  of  her  husband's  patriot 
ism  led  to  the  formation  of  a  society  that  will  make  rapid 
strides  towards  the  front  rank  of  the  army  now  at  work  for 
the  amelioration  of  the  condition  of  mankind. 

*  That  was  McKenzie. 


NEW  ENGLAND   HOMES. 

I  'VE  been  through  all  the  nations,  have  travelled  o'er  the  earth, 
O'er  mountain-top  and  valley,  far  from  my  land  of  birth  ; 
But  whereso'er  I  wandered,  wherever  I  did  roam, 
I  saw  no  spot  so  pleasant  as  my  own  New  England  home. 

I  've  seen  Italia's  daughters,  beneath  Italian  skies  ; 
Seen  beauty  in  their  happy  smiles,  and  love  within  their  eyes  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  fairer  ones  that  grace  New  England's  shore, 
In  preference  to  the  dwellers  in  the  valley  of  Lanore. 

I  've  watched  the  sun's  departure  behind  the  "  Eternal  Hills," 
"When  with  floods  of  golden  light  the  vaulted  heaven  it  fills  ; 
But  Italy  can  never  boast,  with  its  poetic  power, 
More  varied  beauties  than  those  of  New  England's  sunset  hour. 

I  love  my  own  New  England  ;  I  love  its  rocks  and  hills  ; 
I  love  its  trees,  its  mossy  banks,  its  fountains  and  its  rills  ; 
I  love  its  homes,  its  cottages,  its  people  round  the  hearth  ; 
I  love,  0,  how  I  love  to  hear  New  England  shouts  of  mirth ! 

Tell  me  of  the  sunny  South,  its  orange-groves  and  streams, 
That  they  surpass  in  splendor  man's  most  enraptured  dreams ; 
But  never  can  they  be  as  fair,  though  blown  by  spicy  gales, 
As  those  sweet  homes,  those  cottages,  within  New  England  vales. 

O,  when  life's  cares  are  ending,  and  time  upon  my  brow 
Shall  leave  a  deeper  impress  than  gathers  on  it  now  ; 
"When  age  shall  claim  its  sacrifice,  and  I  no  more  shall  roam. 
Then  let  me  pass  my  latter  days  in  my  New  England  home ! 


TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 


LOVE  THAT  WANES   NOT. 

0,  WHEN  should  Love's  true  beacons  glow  the  brightest, 
If  not  when  darkness  shrouds  the  path  we  tread  ? 

When  should  its  tokens,  though  they  be  the  slightest, 
Be  given,  if  not  when  clouds  are  overhead  ? 

When  light  is  'round  us,  and  when  joys  are  glowing, 
Some  hand  may  press  our  own,  and  vow  to  cherish 

A  love  for  us  which  ne'er  shall  cease  its  flowing,  — 
And  yet  tfiat  love,  when  darkness  comes,  may  perish. 

But  there  is  love  which  will  outlive  all  sorrow, 
And  in  the  darkest  hour  be  nigh  to  bless,  — 

Which  need  not  human  art  or  language  borrow, 
Its  deep  affection  fondly  to  express. 

The  mother  o'er  the  child  she  loveth  bending 
Need  not  in  words  tell  others  of  her  love  ; 

For,  on  the  wings  of  earnest  prayer  ascending, 
It  rises,  and  is  registered  above. 

O,  such  is  love  —  all  other  is  fictitious  ; 

All  other  's  vanquished  by  disease  and  pain  ; 
But  this,  which  lives  when  fate  is  unpropitious, 

Shall  rise  to  heaven,  and  there  an  entrance  gain. 


ONWARD   COURAGEOUSLY. 

BEND  thee  to  action  —  nerve  thee  to  duty  ! 

Whate'er  it  may  be,  never  despair  !  * 
God  reigns  on  high,  —  pray  to  him  truly, 

He  will  an  answer  give  to  thy  prayer. 

Shrinketh  thyself  from  crosses  before  thee  ? 

Art  thou  so  made  as  to  tremble  and  fear  ? 
Confide  in  thy  God ;  he  will  watch  o'er  thee  ; 

Humbly  and  trustingly,  brother,  draw  near  ! 


A    FOREST   PIC-NIC    SONG.  153 

Clouds  may  be  gathering,  light  may  depart, 

Earth  that  thou  treadest  seem  crumbling  away  ; 

New  foes,  new  dangers,  around  thee  may  start, 
And  spectres  of  evil  tempt  thee  astray. 

Onward  courageously  !  nerved  for  the  task, 
Do  all  thy  duty,  and  strength  shall  be  thine  ; 

Whate'er  you  want  in  humility  ask, 

Aid  shall  be  given  from  a  source  that 's  divine. 

Do  all  thy  duty  faithftd  and  truly  ; 

Trust  in  thy  Maker,  —  he  's  willing  to  save 
Thee  from  all  evil,  and  keep  thee  securely, 

And  make  thee  triumphant  o'er  death  and  the  grave. 


A  FOREST  PIC-NIC   SONG. 

WITHIN  these  woods,  beneath  these  trees, 

We  meet  to-day  a  happy  band  ; 
All  joy  is  ours,  —  we  feel  the  breeze 

Blow  gently  o'er  our  native  land. 
How  brightly  blooms  each  forest  flower  ! 

What  cheerful  notes  the  wild  bird  sings  ! 
How  nature  charms  our  festive  hour, 

What  beauty  round  our  pathway  springs ! 

The  aged  bear  no  weight  of  years  ; 

The  good  old  man,  the  matron  too, 
Forget  their  ills,  forget  their  fears, 

And  range  the  dim  old  forests  through 
With  youth  and  maiden  on  whose  cheek 

The  ruddy  bloom  of  health  doth  glow, 
And  in  whose  eyes  the  heart  doth  speak 

Oft  more  than  they  would  have  us  know. 

How  pleasant  thus  it  is  to  dwell 
Within  the  shadow  of  this  wood, 

Where  rock  and  tree  and  flower  do  tell 
To  all  that  nature's  God  is  good  ! 


TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

Here  nature's  temple  open  stands, — 
There  's  none  so  nobly  grand  as  hers,  — 

The  sky  its  roof ;  its  floor,  all  lands, 
While  rocks  and  trees  are  worshippers. 

There  's  not  a  leaf  that  rustles  now, 

A  bird  that  chants  its  simple  lays, 
A  breeze  that  passing  fans  our  brow, 

That  speaks  not  of  its  Maker's  praise. 
0,  then,  let  us  who  Cither  here 

Praise  Him  who  gave  us  this  glad  day, 
And  when  the  twilight  shades  appear 

Pass  with  his  blessing  hence  away  ! 


THE    WARRIOR'S    BRIDE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

ROME  was  enjoying  the  blessings  of  peace  ;  and  so  little 
employment  attended  the  soldier's  every-day  life,  that  the 
words  "as  idle  as  a  soldier"  hecame  a  proverb  indicative  of 
the  most  listless  inactivity. 

The  people  gave  themselves  up  to  joy  and  gladness.  The 
sound  of  music  was  heard  from  all  parts  of  the  city,  and  per 
fumed  breezes  went  up  as  an  incense  from  the  halls  of  beauty 
and  mirth. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  blessed  time  for  the  city  of  the  seven 
hills ;  and  its  people  rejoiced  as  they  had  not  for  many  a 
long,  long  year  —  ay,  for  a  century. 

"  Peace,  sweet  peace,  a  thousand  blessings  attend  thy  glad 
reign.  See  you  how  quietly  the  peasant's  flocks  graze  on 
our  eternal  hills  ?  The  tinkling  bell  is  a  sweeter  sound  than 
the  trumpet's  blast;  and  the  curling  smoke,  arising  from  the 
hearth-stones  of  contented  villagers,  is  a  truer  index  of  a 
nation's  power  than  the  sulphurous  cloud  from  the  field  of 
battle.  What  say  you,  Alett, —  is  it  not  ?  " 

Thus  spake  a  youth  of  noble  mien,  as  he  stood  with  one 
arm  encircling  the  waist  of  a  lady,  of  whose  beauty  it  were 
useless  to  attempt  a  description.  There  are  some  phases  of 
beauty  which  pen  cannot  describe,  nor  pencil  portray, —  a 
beauty  which"  seems  to  hover  around  the  form,  words,  and 
motions  of  those  whose  special  recipients  it  is ;  a  sort  of  ethe- 


156  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

real  loveliness,  concentrating  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  the 
sun's  golden  rays,  and  so  acting  upon  the  mind's  eye  of  the 
observer  as  almost  to  convince  him  that  a  visitant  from  a 
sphere  of  perfection  is  in  his  presence. 

Such  was  that  of  Alett.  She  was  the  only  daughter  of  a 
distinguished  general,  whose  name  was  the  terror  of  all  the 
foes,  and  the  confidence  of  all  the  friends,  of  Italy  —  his 
eldest  daughter  ;  and  with  love  approaching  idolatry  he 
cherished  her.  She  was  his  confidant.  In  the  privacy  of 
her  faithful  heart  he  treasured  all  his  plans  and  purposes. 
Of  late,  the  peaceful  security  in  which  the  nation  dwelt 
gave  him  the  opportunity  of  remaining  at  home,  where,  in 
the  companionship  of  a  wife  he  fondly  loved,  children  he 
almost  idolized,  and  friends  whose  friendship  was  not  ficti 
tious,  he  found  that  joy  and  comfort  which  the  camp  could 
never  impart. 

Alett  was  ever  in  the  presence  of  her  father,  or  the  young 
man  whose  apostrophe  to  peace  we  have  just  given. 

Rubineau  was  not  the  descendant  of  a  noble  family,  in  the 
worldly  acceptation  of  the  term.  It  was  noble,  indeed,  but 
not  in  deeds  of  war  or  martial  prowess.  Its  nobleness  con 
sisted  in  the  steady  perseverance  in  well-doing,  and  a  strict 
attachment  to  what  conscience  dictated  as  right  opinions. 
The  general  loved  him  for  the  inheritance  he  possessed  in 
such  traits  of  character,  and  the"  love  which  existed  between 
his  daughter  and  the  son  of  a  plebeian  was  countenanced 
under  such  considerations,  with  one  proviso ;  which  was, 
that,  being  presented  with  a  commission,  he  should  accept  it, 
and  hold  himself  in  readiness  to  leave  home  and  friends  when 
duty  should  call  him  to  the  field  of  battle. 

We  have  introduced  the  two  standing  on  a  beautiful  emi 
nence,  in  the  rear  of  the  general's  sumptuous  mansion. 

The  sun  was  about  going  down,  and  its  long,  golden  rays 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  157 

streamed  over  hill  and  dale,  palace  and  cot,  clothing  all  in  a 
voluptuous  flow  of  rich  light. 

They  had  stood  for  several  moments  in  silence,  gazing  at 
the  quiet  and  beautiful  scene  before  them,  when  the  musical 
voice  of  Rubineau  broke  forth  in  exclamations  of  delight  at 
the  blessings  of  peace. 

Alett  was  not  long  in  answering.  It  was  a  theme  on 
which  she  delighted  to  dwell.  Turning  the  gaze  of  her  large, 
full  eyes  up  towards  those  of  Rubineau,  she  said, 

"  Even  so  it  is.  Holy  Peace  !  It  is  strange  that  men 
will  love  the  trumpet's  blast,  and  the  smoke  and  the  heat 
of  the  conflict,  better  than  its  gentle  scenes.  Peace,  peace  ! 
blessings  on  thee,  as  thou  givest  blessings  !  " 

Rubineau  listened  to  the  words  of  his  Alett  with  a  soul 
of  admiration.  He  gazed  upon  her  with  feelings  he  had 
never  before  felt,  and  which  it  was  bliss  for  him  to  experi 
ence. 

She,  the  daughter  of  an  officer,  brought  up  amid  all  the 
glare  and  glitter,  show  and  blazonry,  of  military  life, —  she, 
who  had  seen  but  one  side  of  the  great  panorama  of  martial 
life, —  to  speak  thus  in  praise  of  peace,  and  disparagingly 
of  the  profession  of  her  friends  —  it  somewhat  surprised  the 
first  speaker. 

"It  is  true,"  he  replied ;  "  but  how  uncertain  is  the  con 
tinuance  of  the  blessings  we  now  enjoy !  To-morrow 
may  sound  the  alarm  which  shall  call  me  from  your  side  to 
the  strife  and  tumult  of  Avar.  Instead  of  your  gentle  words, 
I  may  hear  the  shouts  of  the  infuriated  soldiery,  the  cry  of 
the  wounded,  and  the  sighs  of  the  dying." 

"  Speak  not  so,"  exclaimed  Alett;  "  it  must  not  be." 

"  Do  you  not  love  your  country  ?  "  inquired  the  youth. 

"  I  do,  but  I  love  Rubineau  more.  There  are  warriors 
enough  ready  for  the  battle.  It  need  not  be  that  you  go. 

But  why  this   alarm?      We  were   talking  of  peace,  and, 
14 


158  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

behold,  now  wo  have  the  battle-field  before  us — war  and  all 
its  panoply !  " 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dearest  Alett,  for  borrowing  trouble ; 
but  at  times,  when  I  am  with  you,  and  thinking  of  our  pres 
ent  joy,  the  thought  will  arise  that  it  may  be  taken  from 
us."  No  more  words  were  needed  to  bring  to  the  mind  of 
Alett  all  that  filled  that  of  Rubineau.  They  embraced  each 
the  other  more  affectionately  than  ever,  and  silently  repaired 
to  the  house  of  the  general. 

C!H  AFTER   n. 

"  To  remain  will  be  dishonor ;  to  go  may  be  death !  When 
a  Roman  falls,  the  foe  has  one  more  arrow  aimed  at  his 
heart ;  an  arrow  barbed  with  revenge,  and  sent  with  unerring 
precision.  Hark  !  that  shout  is  music  to  every  soldier's  ear. 
Hear  you  that  tramp  of  horsemen  1  that  rumbling  of  chariot- 
wheels?" 

•  Twelve  months  had  passed  since  the  time  of  the  last  chap 
ter,  and,  after  repeated  threatenings,  war  had  actually  begun. 

Instead  of  idle  hours,  the  soldiers  had  busy  moments,  and 
every  preparation  was  made  to  meet  the  opposing  array  in  a 
determined  manner,  and  with  a  steadiness  of  purpose  that 
should  insure  success. 

The  general  watched  for  some  time  the  fluctuating  appear 
ance  of  public  affairs,  and  it  was  not  until  war  was  not  only 
certain,  but  actually  in  progress,  that  he  called  upon  Ru 
bineau  to  go  forth. 

A  week  hence  Rubineau  and  Alett  were  to  be  united  in 
marriage :  and  invitations  had  been  extended  far  and  near, 
in  anticipation  of  the  event.  It  had  been  postponed  from 
week  to  week,  with  the  hope  that  the  various  rumors  that 
were  circulated  respecting  impending  danger  to  the  country 
might  prove  untrue,  or  at  least  to  have  a  foundation  on  some 
weak  pretence,  which  reasonable  argument  might  overthrow. 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  159 

Day  by  day  these  rumors  increased,  and  the  gathering 
together  of  the  soldiery  betokened  the  certainty  of  an  event 
which  would  fall  as  a  burning  meteor  in  the  midst  of  the 
betrothed  and  their  friends. 

The  call  for  Rubineau  to  depart  was  urgent,  and  its  answer 
admitted  of  no  delay. 

"  To  remain,"  said  the  general,  "  will  be  dishonor ;  to  go 
may  be  death :  which  will  you  choose  ?  " 

It  was  a  hard  question  for  the  young  man  to  answer.  But 
it  must  be  met.  The  general  loved  him,  and  with  equal 
unwillingness  the  question  was  presented  and  received. 

"I  go.     If  Rubineau  falls " 

"  If  he  returns,"  exclaimed  the  general,  interrupting  him, 
"honor,  and  wealth,  and  a  bride  who  loves  and  is  loved, 
shall  beliis  —  all  his." 

It  was  a  night  of  unusual  loveliness.  The  warm  and  sul 
try  atmosphere  of  the  day  had  given  place  to  cool  and  gentle 
breezes.  The  stars  were  all  out,  shining  as  beacons  at  the 
gates  of  a  paradise  above ;  and  the  moon  began  and  ended 
her  course  without  the  attendance  of  one  cloud  to  veil  her 
beauties  from  the  observation  of  the  dwellers  on  earth. 

Rubineau  and  Alett  were  seated  beneath  a  bower,  culti 
vated  by  the  fair  hand  of  the  latter. 

The  next  morning  Rubineau  was  to*  depart.  All  the 
happy  scenes  of  the  coming  week  were  to  be  delayed,  and 
the  thought  that  they  might  be  delayed  long  —  ay,  forever 
—  came  like  a  shadow  of  evil  to  brood  in  melancholy  above 
the  place  and  the  hour. 

We  need  not  describe  the  meeting,  the  parting. 

"  Whatever  befalls  me,  I  shall  not  forget  you,  Alett. 
Let  us  hope  for  the  best.  Yet  a  strange  presentiment  I  have 
that  I  shall  not  return." 


160  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

"0  that  I  could  go  with  you!"  said  Alett.  "Think 
you  father  would  object  ?  " 

"  That  were  impossible.  Nothing  but  love,  true  and 
enduring,  could  make  such  a  proposal.  It  would  be  incur 
ring  a  two-fold  danger." 

"Death  would  be  glorious  with  you,  — life  insupportable 
without  you !" 

In  such  conversation  the  night  passed,  and  when  the  early 
light  of  morning  came  slowly  up  the  eastern  sky,  the  sound 
of  a  trumpet  called  him  away. 

The  waving  of  a  white  flag  was  the  last  signal,  and  the 
general,  all  unused  to  tears  as  he  was,  mingled  his  with  those 
of  his  family  as  the  parting  kiss  was  given,  and  Rubineau 
started  on  a  warfare  the  result  of  which  was  known  only 
to  Him  who  governs  the  destinies  of  nations  and  of  individ 
uals. 

And  now,  in  the  heat  of  the  conflict,  the  war  raged  furi 
ously.  Rubineau  threw  himself  in  the  front  rank,  and  none 
was  more  brave  than  he.  It  seemed  to  his  fellow-officers 
that  he  was  urged  on  by  some  unseen  agency,  and  guarded 
from  injury  by  some  spirit  of  good. 

To  himself  but  one  thought  was  in  his  mind  ;  and,  regard 
less  of  danger,  he  pressed  forward  for  a  glorious  victory,  and 
honor  to  himself  and  friends. 

Those  whose  leader  he  was  were  inspirited  by  his  courage 
ous  action,  and  followed  like  true  men  where  he  led  the  way. 

They  had  achieved  several  victories,  and  were  making  an 
onset  upon  numbers  four-fold  as  large  as  their  own,  when 
their  leader  received  a  severe  wound,  and,  falling  from  his 
noble  horse,  would  have  been  trampled  to  death  by  his  fol 
lowers,  had  not  those  who  had  seen  him  fall  formed  a  circle 
around  as  a  protection  for  him. 

This  serious  disaster  did  not  dampen  the  ardor  of  the  sol- 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  161 

diers ;  they  pressed  on,  carried  the  point,  and  saw  the  foe 
make  a  rapid  retreat. 

The  shouts  of  victory  that  reached  the  ears  of  Rubineau 
came  with  a  blessing.  He  raised  himself,  and  shouted,  "  On, 
brave  men  !  "  But  the  effort  was  too  much  for  him  to  sus 
tain  for  any  length  of  time,  and  he  fell  back  completely  ex 
hausted. 

He  was  removed  to  a  tent,  and  had  every  attention  bestowed 
upon  him.  As  night  approached,  and  the  cool  air  of  even 
ing  fanned  his  brow,  he  began  to  revive,  but  not  in  any  great 
degree. 

The  surgeon  looked  sad.  There  was  evidently  reason  to 
fear  the  worst ;  and,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  such  scenes,  he 
was  now  but  poorly  prepared  to  meet  it. 

"  Rubineau  is  expiring,"  whispered  a  lad,  as  he  proceeded 
quietly  among  the  ranks  of  soldiers  surrounding  the  tent  of 
the  wounded. 

And  it  was  so.  His  friends  had  gathered  around  his 
couch,  and,  conscious  of  the  approach  of  his  dissolution,  he 
bade  them  all  farewell,  and  kissed  them. 

"  Tell  her  I  love.  I  die  an  honorable  death;  tell  her  that 
her  Rubineau  fell  where  the  arms  of  the  warriors  clashed  the 
closest,  and  that  victory  hovered  above  him  as  his  arm  grew 
powerless ;  and,  0,  tell  her  that  it  was  all  for  her  sake, — 
love  for  her  nerved  his  arm,  and  love  for  her  is  borne 
upward  on  his  last,  his  dying  prayer.  Tell  her  to  love 
as  I " 

"He  is  gone,  sir,"  said  the  surgeon. 

"  Gone  !  "  exclaimed  a  dozen  voices. 

"A  brave  man  has  fallen,"  remarked  another,  as  he 
raised  his  arm,  and  wiped  the  flowing  tears  from  his 
cheek. 

14* 


162  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 


CHAPTER     III. 

At  the  mansion  of  the  old  general  every  arrival  of  news 
from  the  war  sent  a  thrill  of  joy  through  the  hearts  of  its 
inmates.  Hitherto,  every  despatch  told  of  victory  arid 
honor ;  but  now  a  sad  chapter  was  to  be  added  to  the  history 
of  the  conflict. 

Alett  trembled  as  she  beheld  the  slow  approach  of  the 
messenger,  who,  at  all  previous  times,  had  come  with  a  quick 
step.  In  her  soul  she  felt  the  keen  edge  of  the  arrow  that 
was  just  entering  it,  and  longed  to  know  all,  dreadful  though 
it  might  be. 

Need  we  describe  the  scene  of  fearful  disclosure  ?  If  the 
reader  has  followed  the  mind  of  Alett,  as  from  the  first  it  has 
presumed,  conjectured,  and  fancied, —  followed  all  its  hopes 
of  future  bliss,  and  seen  it  revel  in  the  sunshine  of  honor 
and  earthly  fame, —  he  can  form  some  idea,  very  faint  though 
it  must  be,  of  the  effect  which  followed  the  recital  of  all  the 
facts  in  regard  to  the  fallen. 

.  In  her  wild  frenzy  of  grief,  she  gave  utterance  to  the  deep 
feelings  of  her  soul  with  words  that  told  how  deep  was  her 
sorrow,  and  how  unavailing  every  endeavor  which  friends 
exerted  to  allay  its  pangs. 

She  would  not  believe  him  dead.  She  would  imagine  him 
at  her  side,  and  would  talk  to  him  of  peace,  "  sweet  peace," 
and  laugh  in  clear  and  joyous  tones  as  she  pictured  its  bless 
ings,  and  herself  enjoying  with  him  its  comforts. 

Thus,  with  enthroned  reason,  she  would  give  vent  to 
grief;  and,  with  her  reason  dethroned,  be  glad  and  rejoice. 

And  so  passed  her  lifetime. 

Often,  all  day  long,  attired  in  bridal  raiment,  the  same  in 
which  she  had  hoped  to  be  united  indissolubly  to  Rubineau, 
she  remained  seated  in  a  large  oaken  chair,  while  at  her  side 
stood  the  helmet  and  spear  he  had  carried  forth  on  the 


THE  WARRIOR'S  BRIDE.  168 

morning  when  they  parted.  At  such  times,  she  was  as  calm 
as  an  infant's  slumberings,  saying  that  she  was  waiting  for 
the  sound  of  the  marriage-bells ;  asked  why  they  did  not 
ring,  and  sat  for  hours  in  all  the  beauty  of  loveliness  —  the 
Warrior's  Bride. 


THE    ADVENT    OF    HOPE 

ONCE  on  a  time,  from  scenes  of  light 
An  angel  winged  his  airy  flight ; 
Down  to  this  earth  in  haste  he  came, 
And  wrote,  in  lines  of  living  flame, 
These  words  on  everything  he  met,  — 
"  Cheer  up,  be  not  discouraged  yet ! ' 

Then  back  to  heaven  with  speed  he  flew, 
Attuned  his  golden  harp  anew ; 
Whilst  the  angelic  throng  came  round 
To  catch  the  soul-inspiring  sound ; 
And  heaven  was  filled  with  new  delight, 
For  HOPE  had  been  to  earth  that  night. 


CHILD    AND    SIRE. 

"  KNOW  you  what  intemperance  is?  " 

I  asked  a  little  child, 
Who  seemed  too  young  to  sorrow  know, 

So  beautiful  and  mild. 
It  raised  its  tiny,  blue-veined  hand, 

And  to  a  church-yard  near 
It  pointed,  whilst  from  glistening  eye 

Came  forth  the  silent  tear. 


1'AOE    164. 


CHILD  AND   SIRE.  165 

"  Yes,  for  yonder,  in  that  grave, 

Is  my  father  lying ; 
And  these  words  he  spake  to  me 

"While  he  yet  was  dying : 

"  '  Mary,  when  the  sod  lies  o'er  me 

And  an  orphan  child  thou  art,  — 
When  companions  ask  thy  story, 

Say  intemperance  aimed  the  dart. 
When  the  gay  the  wine-cup  circle, 

Praise  the  nectar  that  doth  shine, 
When  they  'd  taste,  then  tell  thy  story, 

And  to  earth  they  '11  dash  the  wine.' 

"  And  there  my  dear-loved  mother  lies, — 

What  bitter  tears  I  've  shed 
Over  her  grave  !  —  I  cannot  think 

That  she  is  really  dead. 
And  when  the  spring  in  beauty  blooms, 

At  morning's  earliest  hour 
I  hasten  there,  and  o'er  her  grave 

I  plant  the  little  flower. 

"  And  patiently  I  watch  to  see 

It  rise  from  out  the  earth, 
To  see  it  from  its  little  grave 

Spring  to  a  fairer  birth. 
For  mother  said  that  thus  would  she, 

And  father,  too,  and  I, 
Arise  from  out  our  graves  to  meet 

In  mansions  in  the  sky. 

"  0,  what  intemperance  is,  there 's  none 

On  earth  can  better  tell. 
Intemperance  me  an  orphan  made, 

In  this  wide  world  to  dwell ; 
Intemperance  broke  my  mother's  heart, 

It  took  my  father's  life, 
And  makes  the  days  of  man  below 

With  countless  sorrows  rife." 


166  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

"  Know  you  what  intemperance  is  ?  " 

I  asked  a  trembling  sire, 
Whose  lamp  of  life  burned  dim,  and  seemed 

As  though  't  would  soon  expire. 
He  raised  his  bo  we'd  head,  and  then 

Methought  a  tear  did  start, 
As  though  the  question  I  had  put 

Had  reached  his  very  heart. 

He  raised  his  head,  but  't  was  to  bow 

It  down  again  and  sigh  ; 
Methought  that  old  man's  hour  had  coine 

In  which  he  was  to  die. 
Not  so ;  he  raised  it  up  again, 

And  boldly  said,  "  I  can  ! 
Intemperance  is  the  foulest  curse 

That  ever  fell  on  man. 

"  I  had  a  son,  as  fair,  as  bright 

As  ever  mortal  blest ; 
And  day  passed  day,  and  year  passed  year, 

Whilst  I  that  son  carest. 
For  all  my  hopes  were  bound  in  him  ; 

I  thought,  from  day  to  day, 
That  when  old  age  should  visit  me 

That  son  would  be  my  stay. 

"  I  knew  temptations  gathered  near, 

And  bade  him  warning  take,  — 
Consent  not,  if  enticed  to  sin, 

E'en  for  his  father's  sake. 
But  in  a  fearful  hour  he  drank 

From  out  the  poisonous  bowl, 
And  then  a  pang  of  sorrow  lodged 

Within  my  inmost  soul. 

"  A  year  had  passed,  and  he  whom  I 

Had  strove  in  vain  to  save 
Fell,  crushed  beneath  intemperance. 

Into  a  drunkard's  grave. 


CHILD   AND    SIRE.  167 

O,  brother,  I  can  tell  to  thee 
What  vile  intemperance  is, 
When  one  in  whom  I  fondly  hoped 

Met  such  an  end  as  his  ! 

• 

"  This  was  not  all ;  a  daughter  I 

Was  blest  with,  and  she  passed 
Before  me  like  an  angel-form 

Upon  my  pathway  cast. 
She  loved  one  with  a  tender  love, 

She  left  her  father's  side, 
And  stood  forth,  in  her  robes  of  white, 

A  young  mechanic's  bride. 

"  She  lived  and  loved,  and  loved  and  lived, 

For  many  a  happy  year  ; 
No  sorrow  clouded  o'er  her  path, 

But  joy  was  ever  near. 
Ay,  those  were  pleasant  hours  we  spent, 

Were  joyful  ones  we  passed  ; 
Alas  !  too  free  from  care  were  they 

On  earth  to  always  last. 

"  Then  he  was  tempted,  tasted,  drank, 

.And  then  to  earth  he  fell ; 
And  ever  after  misery 
0  Within  that  home  did  dwell. 
And  soon  he  died,  as  drunkards  die, 

With  scarce  an  earthly  friend, 
Yet  one  bent  o'er  him  tenderly 
Till  life  itself  did  end. 

"  And  when  life's  chord  was  broken,  when 

His  spirit  went  forth  free, 
In  all  her  anguish  then  she  came 

To  bless  and  comfort  me. 
Yet  she,  too,  died,  ere  scarce  twelve  months 

Had  passed  o'er  her  head, 
And  in  yon  much-loved  church-yard  now 

She  resteth  with  the  dead. 


168  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

"  That  little  child  you  spoke  to  ia 

The  child  she  left  behind ; 
I  love  her  for  her  mother's  sake, 

And  she  is  good  and  kind. 
And  every  morning,  early,  to 

Yon  flowery  grave  she  '11  go ; 
And  I  thank  my  God  she 's  with  me 

To  bless  me  here  below. 

"  I  had  a  brother,  but  he  died 

The  drunkard's  fearful  death ; 
He  bade  me  raise  a  warning  voice 

Till  Time  should  stay  my  breath. 
And  thousands  whom  in  youth  I  loved 

Have  fallen  'neath  the  blast 
Of  ruin  which  intemperance 

Hath  o'er  the  wide  world  cast." 

He  spoke  no  more,  —  the  gushing  tears 

His  furrowed  cheeks  did  leap ; 
The  little  child  came  quick  to  know 

What  made  the  old  man  weep. 
He,  trembling,  grasped  my  hand  and  said 

(The  little  child  grasped  his) , 
"  May  you  ne'er  know,  as  I  have  knows, 

What  sad  intemperance  is  !  " 

• 
And  since  that  hour,  whene'er  I  look 

Around  me  o'er  the  earth, 
And  see  the  wine-cup  passing  free 

'Mid  scenes  of  festive  mirth, 
I  think  how  oft  it  kindleth  up 

Within  its  raging  fire, 
And  fain  would  tell  to  all  the  truths 

I  heard  from  "  Child  and  Sire." 


A  BROTHER'S  WELCOME.  169 


A   BROTHER'S    WELCOME. 

WELCOME,  brother,  welcome  home  ! 
Here  's  a  father's  hand  to  press  thee ; 
Here  's  a  mother's  heart  to  bless  thee  ; 
Here  's  a  brother's  will  to  twine 
Joys  fraternal  close  with  thine  ; 
Here  's  a  sister's  earnest  love, 
Equalled  but  by  that  above ; 
Here  are  friends  who  once  did  meet  thee, 
Gathered  once  again  to  greet  thee. 

Welcome,  brother,  welcome  home ! 
Thou  hast  wandered  far  away  ; 
Many  a  night  and  many  a  day 
We  have  thought  where  thou  might'st  be, 
On  the  land  or  on  the  sea  ; 
Whether  health  was  on  thy  cheek, 
Or  that  word  we  dare  not  speak 
Hung  its  shadowy  wing  above  thee, 
Far  away  from  those  who  love  thee. 

Welcome,  brother,  welcome  home ! 
Here,  where  youthful  days  were  spent 
Ere  life  had  its  labor  lent, 
Where  the  hours  went  dancing  by, 
'Neath  a  clear,  unclouded  sky. 
And  our  thanks  for  blessings  rendered 
Unto  God  were  daily  tendered, 
Here  as  ever  pleasures  reign, 
Welcome  to  these  scenes  again  ! 

15 


THE    IMMENSITY  OF    CREATION. 

IT  is  well  for  man  to  consider  the  heavens,  the  work  of 
God's  hands  ;  the  moon  and  the  stars,  which  He  has  created. 
To  look  forth  upon  the  universe,  of  which  we  form  a  part, 
fills  us  with  high  and  ennobling  thoughts,  and  inspires  us 
with  an  earnest  desire  to  press  onward  in  the  endless  path, 
at  every  step  of  which  new  wonders  and  new  joys  spring  up 
to  greet  our  vision,  and  to  gladden  our  souls. 

Whichever  way  we  look,  above  or  below  us,  to  the  right  or 
the  left,  we  find  a  boundless  expanse  teeming  with  life  and 
its  enjoyments.  This  earth,  large  as  it  may  appear  to  us,  is 
less  than  a  grain  of  sand  in  size,  when  compared  with  the 
vastness  around  it. 

Take  your  soul  away  from  earth,  and  send.it  on  a  mission 
of  research  among  other  worlds.  Let  it  soar  far  away  to 
where  the  dog-star,  Sirius.  holds  its  course ;  and  then,  though 
nineteen  billion  two  hundred  million  miles  from  earth,  a 
distance  so  great,  that  light,  travelling,  as  it  does,  at  the  rate 
of  six  million  six  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  miles  a  min 
ute,  would  require  three  years  to  pass  it,  —  even  then,  when 
the  journeying  spirit  had  reached  such  a  point,  it  might  pass 
on  and  on,  —  new  worlds  meeting  its  gaze  at  every  advance, 
and  new  wonders  being  seen  as  far  beyond  the  point  it  had 
attained  as  the  inconceivable  length  of  the  path  it  had  already 
travelled  multiplied  a  myriad  of  times. 

We  can  scarcely  comprehend  the  vast  distance  of  Sirius ; 
yet,  great  as  this  distance  is,  it  is  the  nearest  star  to  our 


THE    IMMENSITY    OF    CREATION.  171 

system,  and  stars  have  been  seen  whose  distance  from  the 
earth  is  estimated  to  be  a  thousand  times  as  great ! 

Can  human  mind  mark  that  range  1  A  thousand  times 
nineteen  billion  two  hundred  million  !  And  were  we  to  stand 
on  the  last  of  these  discovered  stars,  we  might  look  yet 
far  beyond,  and  see  "  infinity,  boundless  infinity,  stretching 
on,  unfathomed,  forever." 

To  have  an  idea  of  the  vastness  of  creation,  we  must  pos 
sess  the  mind  of  the  Creator.  What  are  we  ?  We  live  and 
move  and  have  our  being  on  a  grain  of  creation,  that  is  being 
whirled  through  boundless  space  with  inconceivable  rapidity: 
And  we  afiect  to  be  proud  of  our  estate  !  We  build  houses, 
and  we  destroy  them ;  we  wage  war,  kill,  brutify,  enslave, 
ruin  each  other;  or,  we  restore,  beautify,  and  bless.  We 
are  vain,  sometimes.  We  think  the  world  was  made  for  us  ; 
the  stars  shine  for  us,  and  all  the  hosts  that  gem  the  drapery 
of  night  created  for  our  special  benefit.  Astonishing  pre 
sumption  !  —  born  of  ignorance  and  cradled  in  credulity  ! 

The  mind  grows  dizzy  as  it  attempts  to  conceive  of  constel 
lation  beyond  constellation,  on  and  on,  through  endless  space. 

Commencing  with  this  earth,  the  mind  given  up  to  serious 
reflection  muses  upon  its  broad  extent  of  territory,  its  conti 
nents  and  its  oceans,  and  it  appears  very  large  indeed.  For 
getting,  for  a  moment,  its  knowledge  of  other  planets,  it  be 
lieves  that  this  world  is  the  whole  universe  of  God  ;  that  the 
sun,  moon  and  stars,  are  but  lights  in  the  firmament  of  heaven 
to  give  light  upon  the  earth.  But  truth  steps  in  and  changes 
the  mind's  view.  It  shows  that,  large  and  important  as  this 
earth  may  appear,  the  sun,  which  is  spoken  of  as  inferior,  is 
three  hundred  and  fifty-four  thousand  nine  hundred  and  thirty- 
six  times  larger ;  and  the  stars,  that  seem  like  diamond  points 
above  us,  are,  many  of  them,  larger  than  the  sun,  one  being 
one  billion  eight  hundred  million  miles  in  diameter.  Yet, 


172  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

such  a  bulk,  when  compared  to  the  universe,  is  less  than  a 
monad. 

A  "monad''  is  an  indivisible  atom.  It  is  as  incomprehensi 
ble  as  the  mysteries  of  creation,  or  the  duration  of  eternity. 

Tripoli,  or  rotten-stone,  an  article  used  in  every  family, 
and  tons  of  which  are  daily  employed  in  manufactories,  is 
composed  entirely  of  animalculae.  In  each  cubic  inch  there 
are  forty-one  billion,  that  is.  forty-one  million-million  of  these 
living,  breathing  creatures,  each  of  whom  has  organs  of  sight, 
hearing  and  digestion.  Think,  if  you  can,  of  the  internal 
organization  of  beings  a  million  of  whom  could  rest  on  the 
point  of  a  cambric  needle  ! 

But  there  are  more  minute  forms  of  creation  than  even 
those.  Deposit  a  grain,  the  four  hundred  and  eightieth  part 
of  an  ounce  of  musk,  in  any  place,  and,  for  twenty  years,  it 
will  throw  off  exhalations  of  fragrance,  without  causing  any 
perceptible  decrease  of  weight.  The  fragrance  that  for  so 
many  years  goes  forth  from  that  minute  portion  of  matter  is 
cdinposed  of  particles  of  musk.  How  small  must  each  of 
those  particles  be,  that  follow  each  other  in  ceaseless  succes 
sion  for  twenty  years,  without  lessening,  to  any  perceptible 
degree,  the  weight  of  the  deposit !  And  yet  we  have  not 
reached  the  monad.  A  celebrated  author  *  made  a  compu 
tation  which  led  to  the  conclusion  that  six  billion  as  many 
atoms  of  light  flow  from  a  candle  in  one  second  as  there 
are  grains  of  sand  in  the  whole  earth,  supposing  each  cubic 
inch  to  contain  one  million  ! 

Here  we  must  stop.  Further  advances  are  impossible, 
yet  our  end  is  not  attained  ;  we  have  not  yet  reached  the 
monad,  for  the  animalcule  and  the  less  sentient  particles  of 
matter,  light,  are  not,  for  they  are  divisible. 

The  insect  can  be  divided,  because  it  has  limbs  with  which 

*  Niewentyt 


THE    IMMENSITY    OF    CREATION.  173 

to  move  ;  and  an  intelligence  higher  than  man  can  doubtless 
see  emanations  from  those  particles  of  light.  But  a  monad  is 
indivisible  !  Think  of  each  cubic  inch  of  this  great  earth  con 
taining  a  million  grains  of  sand,  and  those  countless  grains 
multiplied  by  one  billion,  or  a  million-million,  and  that  the 
product  only  shows  the  number  of  particles  of  light  that  flow 
from  a  candle  in  one  second  of  time !  —  and  not  a  monad  yet ! 
Minds  higher  than  ours  can  separate  each  of  these  particles, 
and  yet  perhaps  they  find  not  the  indivisible,  but  assign  over 
to  other  minds  the  endless  task. 

With  such  thoughts  let  us  return  to  our  first  point,  and 
remark  that  the  star  tens  of  billions  of  miles  distant,  one  bil 
lion  eight  hundred  million  miles  in  diameter,  is  but  a  monad 
when  compared  with  the  creations  of  the  vast  universe  of 
God! 

Here  the  mind  sinks  within  itself,  and  gladly  relinquishes 
the  herculean  task  of  endeavoring  to  comprehend,  for  a  single 
moment,  a  fractional  part  of  the  stupendous  whole. 

Deep  below  us,  high  above  us,  far  as  the  eye  of  the  mind 
can  see  around  us,  are  the  works  of  our  Creator,  marshalled 
in  countless  hosts.  All  animated  by  his  presence,  all  breathed 
upon  by  his  life,  inspired  by  his  divinity,  fostered  by  his  love, 
supported  by  his  pOAver. 

And  in  all  things  there  is  beauty  —  sunbeams  and  rain 
bows  ;  fragrant  flowers  whose  color  no  art  can  equal.  In 
every  leaf,  every  branch,  every  fibre,  every  stone,  there  is  a 
perfect  symmetry,  perfect  adaptation  to  the  conditions  that 
surround  it.  And  thus  it  is,  from  the  minutest  insect  undis- 
cernible  by  human  eye,  to  the  planet  whose  size  no  figures 
can  represent.  Each  and  all  the  works  of  God  order  gov 
erns,  symmetry  moulds,  and  beauty  adorns. 

There  are  all  grades  of  beings,  from  the  monad  to  the  high 
est  intelligences,  and  man  occupies  his  position  in  the  endless 
chain.  Could  you  hear  and  see,  as  seraphs  listen  and  behold, 
15* 


174  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

you  would  hear  one  continuous  song  of  glad  praise  go  up  from 
all  creation ;  you  would  see  all  things  radiant  with  smiles, 
reflecting  the  joys  of  heaven.  And  why  1  Because  they 
follow  nature's  leading,  and.  in  doing  so,  live  and  move  in 
harmony. 

Who  can  scale  the  heights  above  us,  or  fathom  the  depths 
below  us  1  Who  can  comprehend  the  magnitude  of  countless 
worlds  that  roll  in  space  —  the  distance  that  separates  the 
nearest  orb  from  our  earth,  the  worlds  of  being  in  a  drop  of 
water,  the  mighty  array  of  angel  forms  that  fill  immensity  'I 

Well  may  we  exclaim.  "Great  and  marvellous  are  thy 
works,  0  Lord  of  Hosts,  and  that  my  soul  knoweth  right 
well !  " 


A  VISION   OF   HEAVEN 

NIGHT  had  shed  its  darkness  round  me ; 

Wearied  with  the  cares  of  day, 
Heated  I.     Sleep's  soft  folds  bound  jne, 

And  iny  spirit  fled  away. 

As  on  eagle  pinions  soaring, 

On  I  sped  from  star  to  star, 
Till  heaven's  high  and  glistening  portals 

Met  my  vision  from  afar. 

Myriad  miles  I  hasted  over ; 

Myriad  stars  I  passed  by  : 
On  and  on  my  tireless  spirit 

Urged  its  ceaseless  flight  on  high. 

Planets  burned  with  glorious  radiance, 
Lighting  up  my  trackless  way ; 

On  I  sped,  till  music  coming 
From  the  realms  of  endless  day 

Fell  upon  my  ear,  —  as  music 

Chanted  by  celestial  choirs 
Only  can,  —  and  then  my  spirit 

Longed  to  grasp  their  golden  lyres 

Stood  I  near  that  portal  wondering 
Whether  I  could  enter  there  : 

I,  of  earth  and  sin  the  subject, 
Child  of  sorrow  and  of  care  ! 

There  I  stood  like  one  uncalled  for, 
Willing  thus  to  hope  and  wait, 

Till  a  voice  said,  "  Why  not  enter? 
Why  thus  linger  at  the  gate  ? 


176  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

"  Know  me  not  ?  Say  whence  thou  comest 
Here  to  join  our  angel  band. 

Know  me  not?  Here,  take  thy  welcome  — 
Take  thine  angel-sister's  hand." 

Then  I  gazed,  and,  gazing,  wondered  ; 

For  't  was  she  who  long  since  died,  — 
She  who  in  her  youth  departed, 

Falling  early  at  my  side. 

"  Up,"  said  she,  "  mid  glorious  temples  ! 

Up,  where  all  thy  loved  ones  rest ! 
They  with  joy  will  sing  thy  welcome 

To  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 

"  Mansions  where  no  sin  can  enter, 
Home  where  all  do  rest  in  peace  ; 

Where  the  tried  and  faithful  spirit 
From  its  trials  finds  release ; 

"  Golden  courts,  where  watchful  cherubs 

Tune  their  harps  to  holy  praise  ; 

Temples  in  which  countless  myriads 

Anthems  of  thanksgiving  raise." 

I  those  shining  portals  entered, 
Guided  by  that  white-robed  one, 

When  a  glorious  light  shone  round  me, 
Brighter  than  the  noonday  sun  ! 

Friends  I  met  whom  death  had  severed 
From  companionship  below ; 

All  were  there  —  and  in  each  feature 
Immortality  did  glow. 

I  would  touch  their  golden  lyres, 
When  upon  my  ear  there  broke 

Louder  music at  that  moment 

I  from  my  glad  vision  woke. 

All  was  silent ;  scarce  a  zepli yr 
Moved  the  balmy  air  of  night  ; 


SOLILOQUY  OVER  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  WIPE.     17'7 

And  the  moon,  in  meekness  shining, 
Shed  around  its  hallowed  light. 


THERE  'S   HOPE  FOR  THEE   YET. 

WHAT  though  from  life's  bounties  thou  mayest  have  fallen  1 
What  though  thy  sun  in  dark  clouds  may  have  set? 

There  is  a  bright  star  that  illumes  the  horizon, 
Telling  thee  truly,  "  There  's  hope  for  thee  yet." 

This  earth  may  look  dull,  old  friends  may  forsake  thee  ; 

Sorrows  that  never  before  thou  hast  met 
May  roll  o'er  thy  head ;  yet  that  bright  star  before  thee 

Shines  to  remind  thee  "  there  's  hope  for  thee  yet." 

'T  is  but  folly  to  mourn,  though  fortune  disdain  thee, 
Though  never  so  darkly  thy  sun  may  have  set ; 

'T  is  wisdom  to  gaze  at  the  bright  star  before  thee, 
And  shout,  as  you  gaze,  "  There 's  hope  for  me  yet." 


SOLILOQUY  OVER  THE  GRAVE  OF  A 
WIFE. 

IT  cannot  be  that  thou  art  dead  ;  that  now 
I  watch  beside  thy  grave,  and  with  my  tears 
Nourish  the  flowers  that  blossom  over  thee  ; 
I  cannot  think  that  thou  art  dead  and  gone  ; 
That  naught  remains  to  me  of  what  thou  wert, 
Save  that  which  lieth  here,  — dust  unto  dust. 

When  the  bright  sun  arises,  and  its  rays 

Pass  noiseless  through  my  chamber,  then  methinks 


178  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

That  thou  art  with  mo  still  ;  that  I  can  see 
Thy  flowing  hair  ;  and  thy  bright  glancing  eye 
Beams  on  me  with  a  look  none  other  can. 
And  when  at  noon  life's  busy  tumult  makes 
My  senses  reel,  and  I  almost  despair, 
Thou  cornest  to  me  and  I  'm  cheered  again  ; 
Thine  own  bright  smile  illuminates  my  way, 
And  one  by  one  the  gathered  clouds  depart, 
Till  not  a  shadow  lies  upon  my  path. 
• 

Night,  with  its  long  and  sombre  shadows,  treads 

Upon  the  steps  that  morn  and  noon  have  trod  ; 

And,  as  our  children  gather  round  my  knee, 

And  lisp  those  evening  prayers  thy  lips  have  taught, 

I  cannot  but  believe  that  thou  art  near. 

But  when  they  speak  of"  mother,"  when  they  say 

"  'T  is  a  long  time  since  she  hath  left  our  side," 

And  when  they  ask,  in  their  soft  infant  tones, 

When  they  again  shall  meet  thee,  —  then  I  feel 

A  sudden  sadness  o'er  my  spirit  come  : 

And  when  sleep  holds  them  in  its  silken  bands 

I  wander  here,  to  this  fair  spot  they  call 

Thy  grave  (as  though  this  feeble  earth  could  hold 

Thee  in  its  cold  embrace) ,  and  weep  and  sigh  ; 

Yet,  trusting,  look  above  to  yon  bright  sphere, 

And  feel  thou  art  not  dead,  but  living  there. 

It  is  not  thou  that  fills  this  spot  of  earth, 
It  is  not  thou  o'er  whom  these  branches  wave. 
These  blooming  roses  only  mark  the  spot 
Where  but  remaineth  that  thou  couldst  not  wear 
Amid  immortal  scenes. 

Thou  livest  yet ! 

Thy  feet  do  tread  the  golden  courts  of  heaven  ; 
Thy  hands  have  touched  the  harps  that  angels  use  ; 
Thy  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  our  Lord  ; 
Thy  ears  have  listened  to  that  song  of  praise 
Which  angels  utter,  and  which  God  accepts. 


THE    FUGITIVES.  179 


THE   FUGITIVES. 

THEY  had  escaped  the  galling  chain  and  fetters, 

Had  gained  the  freedom  which  they  long  had  sought, 
And  lived  like  men  —  in  righteous  deeds  abettors, 

Loving  the  truth  which  God  to  them  had  taught 
Some  at  the  plough  had  labored  late  and  early  ; 

And  some  ascended  Learning's  glorious  mount ; 
And  some  in  Art  had  brought  forth  treasures  pearly, 

Which  future  history  might  with  joy  recount 
As  gems  wrought  out  by  hands  which  God  made  free, 
Bufrrnan  had  sworn  should  chained  and  fettered  be. 

They  lived  in  peace,  in  quietness,  and  aided 

In  deeds  of  charity  —  in  acts  of  love  ; 
Nor  cared  though  evil  men  their  works  upbraided, 

While  conscience  whispered  of  rewards  above. 
And  they  had  wives  to  love,  children  who  waited 

At  eve  to  hear  the  father's  homeward  tread, 
And  clasped  the  hand,  —  or  else,  with  joy  elated, 

Sounding  his  coming,  to  their  mother  sped. 
Thus  days  and  years  passed  by,  and  hope  was  bright, 
Nor  dreamed  they  of  a  dark  and  gloomy  night. 

Men  came  empowered,  with  handcufis  and  with  warrants, 

And,  entering  homes,  tore  from  their  warm  embrace 
Husbands  and  fathers,  and  in  copious  torrents 

Poured  forth  invective  on  our  northern  race, 
And  done  all  "  lawfully,"  because  't  was  voted 

By  certain  men,  who,  when  they  had  the  might, 
Fostered  plans  on  which  their  passions  doted, 

Despite  of  reason  and  God's  law  of  right ; 
And,  bartering  liberties,  the  truth  dissembled, 
While  Freedom's  votaries  yielded  as  they  trembled. 

****** 
Shall  we  look  on  and  bear  the  insult  given  ? 
•  O,  worse  than  "  insult "  is  it  to  be  chained, 
To  have  the  fetters  on  thy  free  limbs  riven, 

When  once  the  prize  of  Freedom  has  been  gained. 


180  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

No!  by  the  granite  pointing  high  above  us, 
By  Concord,  Lexington,  and  Fancuil  Hull, 

By  all  these  sacred  spots,  by  those  who  love  us, 
We  pledge  to-day  our  hate  of  Slavery's  thrall  ; 

And  give  to  man,  whoever  he  may  be, 

The  power  we  have  to  make  and  keep  him  free. 


THE   UNIVERSAL  JUBILEE. 

V 

WHAT  shouts  shall  rise  when  earth  shall  hold 

Its  universal  jubilee  ! 
When  man  no  more  is  bought  and  sold, 

And  one  and  all  henceforth  are  free  ! 
Then  songs  they  '11  sing, 
That  loud  shall  ring 
From  rock  to  rock,  from  shore  to  shore. 

"  Hurra  !  "  they  '11  shout,  "  we  're  free,  we  're  free, 

From  land  to  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  chains  and  fetters  bind  no  more  !  " 

Let  every  freeman  strive  to  bring 

The  universal  jubilee  ; 
All  hail  the  day  when  earth  shall  ring 
With  shouts  of  joy,  and  men  are  free  ! 

Then  each  glad  voice 

Shall  loud  rejoice, 
And  chains  shall  fall  from  every  hand, 

Whilst  myriad  tongues  shall  loudly  tell 

The  grateful  joy  of  hearts  that  swell. 
Where  Freedom  reigns  o'er  sea  and  land. 


THE   WIDOWS   STORY. 

TAPVILLE  was  situated  on  the  borders  of  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  rivers  that  grace  and  refresh  the  soil  of  New  Eng 
land.  It  was  once  a  quiet  place,  once  as  perfect  in  its  char 
acter  as  any  of  its  sisterhood.  A  moral  atmosphere  pervaded 
it,  and  the  glorious  and  divine  principle  of  doing  unto  others 
as  they  would  have  others  do  unto  them  governed  its  inhab 
itants  ;  and.  therefore,  it  was  not  strange  that  its  farmers 
and  storekeepers  kept  good  the  proverbial  honesty  and  hos 
pitality  of  their  progenitors.  Tradition  said  (but  written 
history  was  silent)  that  a  few  of  those  who  landed  at  Plym 
outh  Rock  separated  from  the  main  body,  aid  took  up 
their  abode  further  in  the  interior;  and  that,  from  these 
"  few,"  a  flourishing  company  arose,  and  the  place  they  in 
habited  was  "  Springvale."  But  time  and  circumstances, 
having  much  to  do  with  the  concerns  of  earth's  inhabitants, 
changed  the  character  as  well  as  the  name  of  this  ancient 
town,  and  "  Springvale  "  became  "  Tapville." 

One  evening,  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
I  don't  remember  what,  after  a  somewhat  fatiguing  ride  on 
horseback  all  day,  my  heart  was  cheered  on  coming  in  view 
-of  the  town.  I  had  never  visited  Tapville,  but,  from  accounts 
I  had  heard,  judged  it  to  be  a  sort  of  Pandemonium  —  a 
juvenile  Bedlam.  As  I  entered,  troops  of  children  greeted 
me  with  shouts,  and  my  horse  with  stones.  Despite  of  my 
treatment,  I  could  not  but  compare  their  appearance,  to  say 
nothing  of  their  conduct,  with  those  I  had  last  seen  in  another 
town,  thirty  miles  distant.  These  were  attired  in  rags,  those 
16 


182  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

in  good  clothing ;  these  with  unwashed  faces,  uncombed  hair, 
and  bearing  every  mark  of  neglect. —  those  bright  and 
smiling,  happy  themselves,  and  making  all  around  them  so. 

I  did  not  much  fancy  my  reception,  I  assure  you.  My 
horse  seemed  wondering  at  the  cause  of  it,  for  he  suddenly 
halted,  then  turned  slowly  about,  and  began  to  canter  away 
with  a  speed  that  I  thought  quite  impossible  for  a  beast  after 
a  long  day's  work.  I  reined  him  in,  turned  about,  and 
entered  the  town  by  a  small  and  not  much  frequented 
pathway. 

There  was  a  large  building  at  my  left,  with  a  huge  sign  over 
its  principal  door,  from  which  I  learned  that  "  Good  Enter 
tainment  for  Man  and  Beast  "  might  be  had  within.  Appear 
ances,  however,  indicated  that  a  beast  must  be  a  very  bad 
beast  who  would  accept  its  "entertainment." 

A  fat  man,  wearing  a  green  jacket  on  his  back,  an  old 
torn  and  tattered  straw  hat  on  his  head,  and  both  hands  in 
his  pockets,  stood  lazily  at  the  door ;  before  which  half  a 
score  of  dirty  children  were  playing  with  marbles,  and  a 
short  distance  from  which  a  couple  of  children  were  fighting, 
upon  whose  pugilistic  exercises  a  woman,  with  a  child  in  her 
arms  and  a  pipe  in  her  mouth,  was  gazing  with  intense 
interest. 

The  general  appearance  of  the  town  was  far  from  pleasing. 
At  nearly  every  window,  hats,  or  shingles,  or  bundles  of 
rags,  took  the  place  of  glass,  and  the  doors,  instead  of  being 
hung  on  hinges,  were  "  set  up"  liable  to  be  set  down  by 
the  first  gust  of  wind. 

Near  one  miserable  shantee,  poor,  very  poor  apology  for 
a  dwelling-house,  one  man  was  endeavoring  to  get  another 
into  the  house ;  at  least,  so  I  thought ;  but  both  were  so 
much  intoxicated  that  I  could  not  tell,  for  my  life,  which 
the  latter  was.  At  one  moment,  the  man  with  the  blue  coat 
with  the  tails  cut  off  seemed  to  be  helping  the  man  without 


THE   WIDOW'S   STORY.  183 

a  coat ;  the  next  moment,  I  thought  the  coatless  man  was 
trying  to  help  the  other.  The  fact  was,  both  needed  help, 
which  neither  could  give;  so  they  remained  "in  a  fix." 

Now  and  then,  a  bare-footed  little  child  would  run  across 
my  path,  and  hurry  out  of  sight,  as  if  fearful  of  being  seen 
where  so  much  that  was  neither  of  heaven  nor  of  earth  was 
discernible. 

In  striking  contrast  with  the  want  and  desolation  around, 
stood  a  beautiful  mansion.  Around  it  was  a  garden  of  choice 
flowers,  and  the  vine,  with  its  rich  clusters  of  luscious  grapes, 
shaded  the  path  to  the  entrance  of  the  house. 

I  continued  on.  Far  up  a  shaded  avenue  I  perceived  a 
small,  yet  neat  cottage,  so  different  in  general  appearance 
from  those  around  it,  that  I  turned  my  way  thither,  in  hopes 
of  resting  in  quiet,  and,  if  possible,  of  learning  something 
relative  to  the  town.  I  alighted,  knocked,  and  soon  an  old 
lady  requested  me  to  enter,  saying  that  Tommy  would  see 
that  my  horse  was  cared  for.  It  was  a  small  room  that  I 
entered ;  everything  was  as  neat  and  clean  as  a  New  Year's 
gift,  and  there  was  so  much  of  New  England  about  it,  that 
I  felt  at  home.  Near  an  open  window,  in  an  easy-chair,  sat 
a  young  lady  of  decidedly  prepossessing  appearance,  but  evi 
dently  wasting  beneath  that  scourge  of  eastern  towns  and 
cities  —  consumption.  There  was  a  hue  upon  her  cheek 
that  was  in  beautiful  contrast  with  the  pure  white  of  her 
high  forehead,  and  the  dark,  penetrating  eye  that  flashed 
with  the  deep  thoughts  of  her  soul. 

The  old  lady  was  one  of  those  good-natured,  motherly 
women,  whom  you  will  find  at  the  firesides  of  New  England 
homes,  generous  to  a  fault ;  and  whom  you  cannot  but  love, 
for  the  interest  she  takes  in  you,  and  the  solicitude  she  man 
ifests  for  your  welfare. 

A  repast  was  soon  at  hand,  and  when  it  was  over  the 
lady  said, 


184  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

You  are  from  Boston,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  replied;  "and,  having  heard  considerable  re 
specting  this  place,  have  come  hither  to  satisfy  myself  whether 
or  not  any  good  would  be  likely  to  result  from  a  temperance 
lecture  here." 

"Temperance  lecture !  "'she  exclaimed,  as  she  grasped 
my  hand.  "Do,  sir,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  something,  do 
anything  you  possibly  can,  to  stay  the  ravages  of  the  rum 
fiend  in  this  place  !  " 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  she  could  not.  The  foun 
tains  of  her  heart  seemed  breaking,  and  a  flood  of  tears 
flowed  from  her  eyes.  The  daughter  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  the  sighs  that  arose  from  both  mother  and  child 
told  me  that  something  had  been  said  that  deeply  affected 
them. 

Tommy  at  this  moment  came  in,  happy  and  joyous ;  but, 
as  soon  as  he  saw  his  mother  and  sister  weeping,  his  whole 
appearance  changed.  He  approached  his  mother,  and,  look 
ing  up.  in  her  face,  said,  "  Don't  cry,  mother.  Jenny  will 
be  better  soon,  and  Tommy  will  work  and  make  you  and  her 
happy.  Don't  cry,  mother  !  " 

The  child's  simple  entreaty  brought  more  copiously  the 
tears  to  the  mourner's  eyes,  and  some  time  elapsed  before 
they  became  in  the  least  degree  comforted. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  sir,"  said  she,  "  I  know  you  will, 
for  my  grief ;  but,  0,  if  temperance  had  been  here  ten  years 
ago,  we  should  have  been  so  happy !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  then  father  would  not  have  died 
a  drunkard  !  " 

The  surmises  I  had  entertained  as  to  the  cause  of  this 
sorrow  were  now  confirmed ;  and,  at  my  request,  she  told  me 
her  story,  with  a  hope  that  it  might  prove  a  warning  to 
others. 

"  You  must  know,  sir,  that  when  we  came  here  to  live 


THE    WIDOW'S   STORY.  185 

\ 

we  were  just  married.  Alfred,  my  husband,  was  a  good  me 
chanic,  industrious,  frugal  and  kind-hearted.  He  had  by  his 
labor  and  economy  accumulated  a  small  amount,  enough  to 
purchase  an  estate  consisting  of  a  house,  shop  and  farm.  He 
had  many  and  good  customers,  and  our  prospects  were  very 
fair.  We  attended  church  regularly,  for  we  thought  that, 
after  enjoying  the  bounties  of  a  beneficent  Ruler  all  of  six 
days,  it  was  our  duty,  as  well  as  privilege,  to  devote  the 
seventh  to  His  praise. 

1 "  Years  passed  by,  when  one  morning  Jenny,  who  was  then 
about  seven  years  old,  came  running  in,  and  told  me  that  a 
new  store  had  been  opened ;  that  the  man  had  nothing  but 
two  or  three  little  kegs,  and  a  few  bottles  and  tumblers.  I 
went  out,  and  found  it  as  she  had  stated.  There  was  the  man ; 
there  was  his  store ;  there  were  his  kegs,  bottles  and  tumblers. 

' '  The  next  day  some  changes  Avere  made  :  a  few  signs  were 
seen,  and  the  quiet  villagers  gazed  in  wonder,  if  not  admira 
tion,  at  the  inscriptions,  'Rum,'  'Gin,'  'Brandies,'  'Wines 
and  Cigars.'  Old  men  shook  their  heads,  and  looked  wise. 
Old  women  peered  from  beneath  their  specs,  and  gave  vent 
to  many  predictions.  Children  asked  what  the  words  meant. 

"  That  night  I  talked  with  my  husband  about  it.  He 
thought  that  there  was  no  danger ;  that  social  enjoyment 
would  harm  no  one ;  and  seemed  astonished,  to  use  his  own 
words,  '  that  such  a  sensible  woman  as  I  was  should  express 
any  anxiety  about  the  matter.'  That  night,  to  me,  was  a 
long  and  sad  one.  I  feared  the  result  of  the  too  much  de 
pendence  on  self  which  he  seemed  to  cherish. 

"  The  rumseller  soon  gathered  a  number  of  townsmen 
about  him.  His  establishment  became  a  place  of  frequent 
resort  by  many,  and  soon  we  had  quarrelling  neighbors,  and 
disturbances  at  night.  Boys  became  dishonest,  and  thus  the 
fruits  of  the  iniquitous  traffic  became  visible. 

"  I  noticed  that  Alfred  was  not  as  punctual  in  his  return 


186  '     TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

as  formerly ;  and  my  fears  that  he  visited  this  pest-house  of 
the  town  were  soon  confirmed.  I  hinted  to  him  my  sus 
picions,  lie  was  frank,  and  freely  admitted  that  he  visited 
the  bar-room ;  said  he  had  become  acquainted  with  a  few 
choice  spirits,  true  friends,  who  had  sworn  eternal  friendship. 
'  Danger,'  said  he,  'there  is  none  !  If  I  thought  I  endan 
gered  your  happiness,  I  would  not  visit  it  again.'  I  recol 
lect  the  moment.  He  looked  me  steadily  in  the  face,  and, 
as  he  did  so,  a  tear  escaped  my  eye.  He,  smiling,  wiped  it 
away,  promised  that  when  he  saw  evil  he  would  avoid  it,  and 
left  me  alone  to  my  reflections. 

"  But  I  will  be  brief.  I  need  not  tell  you  how,  step  by 
step,  he  descended  that  ladder  whose  end  rested  in  the  grave. 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  warned  him  of  danger ;  how  I  en 
treated  him  to  avoid  it ;  how  I  watched  him  in  sickness,  and 
bathed  his  fevered  brow ;  how  my  heart  was  gladdened  when 
I  saw  his  health  returning,  and  heard  his  solemn  promise  to 
reform. 

"  Nor  need  I  tell  you  how  he  was  again  led  astray,  and 
his  hand  encircled  that  cup  which  he  had  once  dashed  aside. 
0,  sir,  he  was  a  good  man ;  and,  in  his  sober  moments,  he 
would  weep  like  a  child,  as  he  thought  of  his  situation  !  He 
would  come  to  me  and  pour  out  his  soul  in  gratitude  for  my 
kindness ;  and  would  beg  my  forgiveness  in  the  tenderest 
manner,  till  his  heart  became  too  full  for  utterance,  and  his 
repentance  found  vent  in  his  tears. 

"  What  could  I  do  but  forgive  him,  as  I  did  a  hundred 
times  ! 

"  Disheartened,  I  became  sick.  I  was  not  expected  to 
survive ;  and  Jenny,  poor  child,  watched  by  my  side,  and 
contracted  an  illness,  from  which,  I  fear,  she  will  not  be 
freed  till  the  God  she  loves  calls  her  home  to  himself. 

"  When  I  recovered,  Alfred  remained  for  some  time  sober 
and  happy.  But  he  fell !  Yes,  sir ;  but  God  knows  he 


THE   WIDOW'S  STOKY.  '  187 

tried  to  stand,  and  would  have  done  so  had  not  the  owner  of 
that  groggery,  by  foul  stratagem,  hurled  him  to  the  ground. 
I  went,  my  daughter  went,  friends  went,  to  ask  the  de 
stroyer  of  our  happiness  to  desist ;  but  he  turned  us  away 
with  an  oath  and  a  laugh,  saying,  '  he  would  sell  to  all  who 
wanted.' 

' '  Frequent  exposure  brought  disease ;  disease  brought 
death,  and  my  husband  died. 

"  All  our  property  was  sold  to  meet  the  demands  of  merci 
less  creditors,  the  principal  one  of  whom  was  this  very  rum- 
seller  Avho  turned  me  from  his  doors.  A  friend  furnished 
us  with  the  cottage  in  which  we  have  since  lived.  Many 
kind-hearted  friends  have  gathered  around  us,  and  we  have 
been  happy,  save  when  the  recollections  of  the  past  rise 
before  us.  Others,  beside  myself,  have  had  cause  to  mourn  ; 
and  our  town,  once  inhabited  by  happy,  quiet  and  contented 
families,  has  become  noted  as  a  seat  of  iniquity. 

"  He  who  has  caused  this  change  is  now  the  wealthiest 
man  in  town.  You  might  have  seen  his  stately  palace  as 
you  rode  up,  environed  with  fruits  and  flowers.  He  lives 
there ;  but,  within  the  shade  of  that  mansion,  are  the  wretched 
hovels  of  those  upon  whose  ruin  he  sits  enthroned.  He  has 
roses  and  fruits  at  his  door,  but  they  have  been  watered  by 
widows'  tears ;  and  the  winds  that  reach  his  home  amid 
rich  vines  and  laden  trees  may  bear  to  his  ears  the  orphan's 
cry,  from  whose  mouth  he  has  taken  the  daily  bread." 

When  the  old  lady  had  finished  her  narrative,  she  could 
restrain  her  tears  no  longer,  and  they  burst  forth  as  freely 
as  at  first. 

I  inquired  whether  there  were  any  beside  herself  who 
would  become  interested  in  a  temperance  movement.  She 
replied  that  there  were  many,  but  they  Avished  some  one  to 
start  it. 

I  had  left  a  gentleman  at  the  town  I  last  came  from,  who 


188  TOWN    ANU    COUNTRY. 

was  an  eloquent  advocate;  and  my  first  act,  after  listening  to 
the  widow's  narrative,  was  to  write  a  note,  and  send  it  in  all 
possible  haste  to  him. 

The  next  day  he.  came ;  and,  if  you  could  have  seen  the 
joy  of  that  family  as  I  told  them  that  we  had  announced  a 
meeting,  you  would  have  some  faint  idea  of  the  happiness 
which  the  temperance  reform  has  produced. 

From  what  I  had  learned,  I  expected  that  we  should  meet 
with  some  opposition  from  the  wealthy  individual  before  al 
luded  to,  or  from  his  agents,  who  were  so  blinded  to  their 
own  interests  that  they  could  not  be  easily  induced  to  move 
for  their  own  good. 

The  evening  came,  and  the  room  we  had  engaged  was  well 
filled.  My  friend  arose,  when  a  stone,  hurled  at  him  from 
without,  missed  its  aim,  and  struck  a  lamp  at  his  side, 
dashing  it  into  a  hundred  fragments.  Little  disconcerted  at 
this,  he  began  his  address  ;  and.  in  a  short  time,  gained  the 
attention  of  the  audience  in  so  perfect  a  manner,  that  they 
heeded  not  the  attempts  of  a  noisy  crowd  without  to  disturb 
them. 

He  continued  on.  Men  leaned  forward  to  catch  his  words, 
and  some  arose  and  stood  as  motionless  as  statues,  with  eyes 
fixed  intently  on  the  speaker.  Women  wept ;  some  in  sor 
row  for  the  past,  others  in  joy  for  the  future.  A  deep  feel 
ing  pervaded  all.  The  disturbance  without  ceased,  and  one 
by  one  the  disturbers  came  to  the  door ;  one  by  one  they 
entered,  and  began  to  feel  the  truths  which  the  speakers 
uttered. 

The  only  interruption  was  made  by  an  aged  man.  who 
bowed  his  silvery  head,  and.  in  trembling  accents,  moaned 
out,  "  My  son,  my  son ! "  These  words,  uttered  at  the  expi 
ration  of  every  few  minutes,  increased  the  solemnity  of  the 
occasion,  and  added  power  to  the  lecturer's  remarks,  for  all 


THE   WIDOW'S  STORY.  i        189 

\ 

knew  the  story  of  his  son,  and  all  knew  that  he  was  carried 
home  dead  from  the  groggery. 

When,  at  the  end  of  the  lecture,  it  was  asked  who  would 
sign  the  pledge,  the  whole  assembly  started  to  respond  to  the 
call,  and  each  one  that  night  became  pledged  to  total  absti 
nence. 

The  next  day  a  great  excitement  existed  relative  to  the 
groggeries  in  town  ;  a  meeting  was  called,  and  a  committee 
appointed  to  act  in  a  manner  they  thought  best  calculated  to 
promote  the  interests  of  the  people  at  large. 

This  committee  determined  to  present  the  facts  to  the 
keepers  of  the  places  in  question,  and  request  them  to 
renounce  the  traffic. 

The  facts  were  presented.  They  saw  that  their  customers 
had  all  left,  them,  and  why  should  they  continue  ?  It  would 
be  a  losing  business. 

The  effect  of  the  moral  suasion  had  been  powerful ;  it  la 
bored  with  the  very  soul  of  the  traffic,  with  those  who  put 
the  pence  in  the  dealers'  coffers.  It  was  more  powerful  than 
all  laws  that  could  have  been  enacted.  Forbidding  them  to 
sell  while  customers  crowded  their  doors  would  have  had  no 
effect,  unless  to  create  riot ;  inducing  their  customers  to  leave 
them  soon  induced  them  to  leave  the  business,  for  where 
there  are  none  to  buy  there  will  be  none  to  sell. 

In  view  of  all  this,  the  rumsellers  of  Tapville  gave  up  ; 
and,  strange  to  say,  joined  with  the  people  that  night  in  their 
rejoicing,  and  made  a  bonfire  of  their  stock  in  trade. 

By  the  light  of  that  fire  my  friend  and  I  left  the  town ; 
and  when  far  away  we  could  see  its  glare,  and  hear  the  shouts 
of  a  disenthralled  people. 

After  a  few  months'  travel  in  the  south  and  west,  I  revis 
ited  Tapville,  or  rather  the  place  where  it  once  stood  ;  but 
no  Tapville  was  there.  The  town  had  regained  its  former 
sobriety  and  quiet,  and  became  "  Springvale." 


190  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

I  called  at  the  widow's  cottage ;  Tommy  ran  out  to  meet 
me,  and  I  received  a  welcome  I  shall  never  forget.  But 
Jenny  was  no  more ;  with  her  last  breath  she  had  blessed  the 
temperance  cause,  and  then  her  pure  spirit  winged  its  way 
to  that  home  where  sorrows  never  come,  and  where  the 
troubles  of  earth  are  forgotten  amid  the  joys  of  heaven. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    RED    MEN. 

5T  WAS  cold,  bleak  winter,  on  a  rock-bound  coast, 

When  bands  of  exiles  trod  its  frozen  shore. 
Who  then  stood  forth  to  greet  the  coming  host 
And  shelter  freely  give  when  storms  did^mr  ? 
Qld  Samoset  —  peace  ^o  his  memory  still !  — 
He  bade  them  welcome,  welcome,  with  good  will. 

Then  was  the  red  man's  nation  broad  and  strong  — 

O'er  field  and  forest  he  held  firm  control ; 
Then  power  was  his  to  stay  the  coming  throng, 
And  back  the  wave  of  usurpation  roll. 

He  might  have  crushed  them  on  old  Plymouth's  rock, 
And  freedom  to  this  day  have  felt  the  shock. 

Not  so  he  willed  it ;  he  would  have  them  sit 

In  peace  and  amity  around  his  door  ; 
The  pipe  of  peace  in  friendship  would  have  lit, 

And,  as  its  white  cloud  up  towards  heaven  did  soar, 
Learned  that  like  it  the  spirits  pure  and  white 
Ascend,  to  live  in  never-ceasing  light. 

But  what  return  did  they  profusely  give 

Who  were  dependent  on  the  red  man's  corn  ? 
Not  even  to  them  the  privilege  to  live, 
But  war  and  fire,  torture,  hate  and  scorn  ! 

Hunted  like  wild  beasts  through  the  forests'  track  ; 
For  food  and  welcome  such  they  gave  him  back. 


192  .        TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

Then  roused  to  madness  was  the  Indian's  soul, 

Then  grasped  with  firmness  every  one  his  bow ; 
No  mortal  power  his  purpose  could  control, 
Till  he  had  seen  the  traitors  lying  low. 

Revenge !  revenge !  was  sounded  far  and  wide, 
O'er  every  field  and  every  river's  tide. 

The  little  child  that  scarce  could  lisp  a  word 

Was  taught  to  hate  the  white  man  ;  maidens  fair 
Were  roused  to  fearful  vengeance,  as  they  heard 
Their  brothers'  wrongs,  and  madly  tore  their  hair  ; 
Old  men  urged  on  the  young,  and  young  men  fled 
Swift  to  increase  the  armies  of  the  dead. 

And  thus  t^war  began,  —  the  fearful  war 

That  swept  o'er  happy  homesteads  like  a  flood  ; 
The  white  and  red  man  knew  no  other  law 
Than  that  which  wrote  its  every  act  in  blood. 
Daylight  beheld  the  ball  and  arrow's  flight, 
And  blazing  homes  made  terrible  the  night. 

The  rifle's  sharp  report,  the  arrow's  whiz, 

The  shout,  the  yell,  the  fearful  shriek  of  death  ; 
Despair  in  him  who  saw  the  last  of  his, 
And  heard  "  good-by  "  from  children's  dying  breath  ; 
The  last  sad  look  of  prisoners  borne  away, 
And  groan  of  torture,  marked  the  night  and  day. 

With  arms  more  skilful  —  not  with  hearts  more  true, 

Or  souls  more  brave  to  battle  for  the  right  — 
The  white  the  unjust  warfare  did  pursue, 
Till,  inch  by  inch,  the  red  man  took  his  flight 
From  homes  he  loved,  from  altars  he  revered, 
And  left,  forever,  scenes  to  him  endeared. 

0,  what  an  hour  for  those  brave  people  that ! 

Old  men,  whose  homes  were  loved  as  homes  can  be ; 
Young  men  and  maidens  who  had  often  sat 
In  love  and  peace  beneath  the  forest  tree  ; 

Parents  who  'd  planted  flowers,  and  with  warm  tears 
Watered  the  graves  of  dearest-gone  for  years  ! 


THE   WIDOW'S  STORY.  193 

From  every  tree  a  voice  did  seem  to  start, 

And  every  shrub  that  could  a  shadow  cast 
Seemed  to  lament  the  fate  that  bade  them  part, 
So  closely  twined  was  each  one  with  the  past. 
0,  was  it  strange  they  fought  with  furious  zeal  1 
Say,  men  who  think,  and  have  warm  hearts  to  feel. 

* 

And  thus  they  went,  —  a  concourse  of  wronged  men,  — 

Not  with  a  speedy  flight ;  each  inch  they  gave, 
Each  blade  of  grass  that  passed  beyond  their  ken, 
Was  sold  for  blood,  and  for  a  patriot's  grave ; 
And  white  men  paid  the  price  —  and  now  they  hold 
This  broad,  broad  land  for  cost  more  dear  than  gold. 

And  yet  't  is  not  enough  ;  the  cry  for  more 

Hath  vexed  the  Indian,  till  the  Atlantic's 'wave 
Now  blends  with  it  the  thunder  of  its  roar, 
And  soon  shall  sound  the  requiem  o'er  the  grave 
Of  the  last  Indian,  —  last  of  that  brave  band 
Who  once  held  sway  o'er  all  this  fertile  land. 

Methinks  to-day  I  see  him  stand  alone, 

Drawing  his  blanket  close  around  his  form  ; 
He  hath  braved  all,  hath  heard  the  dying  moan 
Rise  from  the  fields  of  strife  ;  and  now  the  storm 
That  hath  swept  all  before  it,  age  on  age, 
On  him,  the  last,  seeks  to  pour  forth  its  rage. 

Raising  his  hand  appealing  to  the  sun, 

He  swears,  by  all  he  hath  or  now  could  crave, 
That  when  his  life  is  closed,  his  life- race  run, 
A  white  man  ne'er  shall  stand  above  his  grave. 
Shall  he,  the  last  of  a  once  noble  race, 
Consign  himself  to  such  a  dire  disgrace  ? 

Never  !  let  rock  to  rock  the  word  resound  ; 

Never !  bear  witness  all  ye  gods  to-day  ; 

Never !  ye  streams  and  rivers,  as  ye  bound, 

"Write  "  Never  "  on  your  waves,  and  bear  away  ; 
Tell  to  the  world  that,  hunted,  wronged,  abusad, 
With  such  reproach  he  ne'er  shall  bo  accused. 

17 


194  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

The  red  man's  brethren,  tell  him  where  are  they ; 

The  red  man's  homos  and  altars,  what  their  fate  ? 
Shall  he  who  stands  the  last,  the  last  to-day, 
Forget  with  his  last  breath  to  whisper  hate? 
Hate,  deep  and  fathomless,  and  boundless  too, 
Such  as  to  fiendish  cruelty  is  due. 

He  cannot  bear  the  white  man's  presence  now, 

Or  bear  to  hear  his  name  or  see  his  works  ; 
He  thinks  that  wrong  is  stamped  upon  his  brow, 
That  in  his  good  deeds  selfish  purpose  lurks. 
Has  he  a  cause  for  this?  —  review  the  past, 
And  see  those  acts  which  prompt  hate  to  the  last. 

Sons  of  the  Pilgrims,  who  to-day  do  boast 

Of  Freedom's  favors,  ye  whose  wealth  doth  lie 
From  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  coast ! 
Let  not  the  race  you  have  supplanted  die  ; 
Perish  like  forest-leaves  from  off  their  lands, 
Without  a  just  requital  at  your  hands. 

O,  give  them  homes  which  they  can  call  their  own, 
Let  Knowledge  light  its  torch  and  lead  the  way  ; 
And  meek  Religion,  from  the  eternal  throne, 
Be  there  to  usher  in  a  better  day  ; 
Then  shall  the  past  be  blotted  from  life's  scroll, 
And  all  the  good  ye  may  do  crown  the  whole. 


SUNLIGHT   ON   THE   SOUL 

O,  THAT  some  spirit  form  would  come, 
From  the  fair  realms  of  heaven  above, 

And  take  my  outstretched  hand  in  hers, 
To  bathe  me  in  angelic  love ! 

O  that  these  longing,  peering  eyes, 

Alight  pierce  the  shadowy  curtain's  fold, 


A    SONG   FROM   THE    ABSENT.  195 

And  see  in  radiant  robes  arrayed, 

The  friends  whose  memory  I  do  hold 
Close,  close  within  my  soul's  deep  cell ! 
0,  that  were  well !  0,  that  were  well ! 

I  've  often  thought,  at  midnight's  hour, 

That  round  my  couch  I  could  discern 
A  shadowy  being,  from  whose  eye 

I  could  not,  ah !  I  would  not  turn. 
It  seemed  so  sisterly  to  me, 

So  radiant  with  looks  of  love, 
That  ever  since  I  've  strove  to  be 

More  like  the  angel  hosts  above. 
The  hopes,  the  joys  were  like  a  spell, 
And  it  was  well !     Yes,  it  was  well ! 

And  every  hour  of  day  and  night 

I  feel  an  influence  o'er  me  steal, 
So  soothing,  pure,  so  holy,  bright^ 

I  would  each  human  heart  could  feel 
A  fraction  of  the  mighty  tide 

Of  living  joy  it  sends  along. 
Then  why  should  I  complain,  and  ask 

Why  none  of  heaven's  angelic  throng 
Come  to  this  earth  with  me  to  dwell, 
For  all  is  well,  —  all,  all  is  well ! 

. 


A  SONG   FROM   THE   ABSENT. 

TO    THE    LOVED    ONE   AT   HOME. 

AWAY  from  home,  how  slow  the  hours 

Pass  wearily  along  ! 
I  feel  alone,  though  many  forms 

Around  my  pathway  throng. 


196  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

There  'B  none  that  look  on  me  in  love? 

Wherever  I  do  roam  ; 
I  'in  longing  for  thy  gentle  smile, 

My  dearest  one,  at  home. 

I  walk  around  ;  strange  things  1  sec, 

Much  that  is  fair  to  view  ; 
Man's  art  and  Nature's  handiwork, 

And  all  to  me  is  new. 
But,  ah  !  I  feel  my  joy  were  more, 

If,  while  'mid  these  I  roam, 
It  could  be  shared  with  thee  I  love, 

My  dearest  one,  at  home. 

Blow,  blow  ye  winds,  and  lx?ar  me  on 

My  long  and  arduous  way  ! 
Move  on,  slow  hours,  more  swiftly  move, 

And  bring  to  life  the  day 
When,  journey  done,  and  absence  o'er, 

No  taore  I  distant  roam  ; 
When  I  again  shall  be  with  thee, 

My  dearest  one,  at  home. 


TWILIGHT  FOREST   HYMN, 

THE  HOUR  OF  PARTING. 

FREEXDS  who  here  have  met  to-day, 
Let  us  sing  our  parting  lay, 
Ere  we  hence  do  pass  away, 

Ere  the  sun  doth  set. 
As  we  've  trod  this  grassy  earth, 
Friendships  new  have  had  their  birth, 
And  this  day  of  festive  mirth 

We  shall  ne'er  forget. 


THE    SUMMER-  SHOWER.  197 

Rock,  and  hill,  and  shading  tree, 
Streamlet  dancing   to  the  sea, 
Gladly  though  we  'd  stay  with  thee, 

We  must  leave  you  all ; 
On  the  tree  and  on  the  flower 
Comes  the  evening's  twilight  hour, 
And  upon  each  forest  bower 

Evening's  shadows  fall. 

Part  we  now,  but  through  our  life, 
Hush  of  peace  or  jar  of  strife, 
Memory  will  still  be  rife 

With  glad  thoughts  of  thee  ; 
Wheresoe'er  our  feet  may  stray, 
Memory  will  retain  this  day  ; 
Fare  thee  well  —  we  haste  away, 

Farewell  rock  and  tree  ! 


THE   SUMMER  SHOWER. 

UP  from  the  lake  a  mist  ascends, 
And  forms  a  sea  of  cloud  above, 
That  hangs  o'er  earth  as  if  in  love 

With  its  green  vales  ;  then  quick  it  sends 
Its  blessings  down  in  cooling  rain, 
On  hill  and  valley,  rock  and  plain. 

Nature,  delighted  with  the  shower, 

Sends  up  the  fragrance  of  each  flower  ; 
Birds  carol  forth  their  cheeriest  lays, 
The  green  leaves  rustle  forth  their  praise. 

Soon,  one  by  one,  the  clouds  depart, 
And  a  bright  rainbow  spans  the  sky, 

That  seems  but  the  reflective  part 
Of  all  below,  fixed  there  on  high. 

17* 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  AUTOMATON. 

EARLY  one  bright  summer  morning,  as  I  was  perambulat 
ing  beneath  those  noble  trees  that  stand  the  body-guard  of 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  of  which  city  life  can  boast, 
—  Boston  Common, —  I  encountered  a  man  who  attracted 
my  special  attention  by  his  apparent  carelessness  of  action, 
and  humble  bearing.  He  looked  dejected  likewise,  and  I 
seated  myself  on  the  stone  seat  beside  him. 

He  took  me  by  the  sleeve  of  my  coat,  and  whispered  in 
my  ear,  "  I  'm  an  Automaton,  sir."  A  few  more  words 
passed  between  us,  after  which,  at  my  request,  he  gave  me  a 
sketch  of  his  life,  which  I  propose  to  give  you  in  language 
as  nearly  his  own  as  possible. 

"  I  was  born.  I  came  into  this  world  without  any  consent 
of  my  own,  sir,  and  as  soon  as  I  breathed  the  atmosphere  of 
this  mundane  state  I  was  bandaged  and  pinned,  and  felt  very 
much  as  a  mummy  might  be  supposed  to  feel  I  was  then 
tossed  from  Matilda  to  Jerusha,  and  from  Jerusha  to  Jane, 
and  from  Jane  to  others  and  others.  I  tried  to  laugh,  but 
found  I  could  n't ;  so  I  tried  to  cry,  and  succeeded  most  ad 
mirably  in  my  effort. 

"'He's  sick,'  said  my  aunt;  and  my  aunt  called  a 
doctor,  who,  wise  man,  called  for  a  slip  of  paper  and  an 
errand-boy. 

"  The  next  I  knew,  my  head  was  being  held  by  my  aunt, 
and  the  doctor  was  pouring  down  my  throat,  which  he  dis 
tended  with  the  handle  of  a  spoon,  a  bitter  potion ;  pouring 
it  down  without  any  consent  of  my  own,  sir. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    AN    AUTOMATON. 

"  Whether  I  got  better  or  worse  I  don't  know;  but  I  slept 
for  a  time,  and  had  a  strange  dream,  of  a  strange  existence, 
upon  which  I  seemed  to  have  suddenly  entered. 

"The  subsequent  year  was  one  in  which  I  figured  not 
largely,  but  considerably.  I  made  a  noise  in  the  world,  and 
was  nattered  so  much  by  my  mother's  acquaintances  that  my 
nose  has  been  what  is  vulgarly  called  '  a  pug,'  ever  since. 
I  did  n't  have  my  own  way  at  all,  except  when  I  screamed. 
In  that  I  was  not  an  Automaton.  I  was  myself  in  that  par 
ticular  ;  and  the  more  restraint  they  put  upon  me,  the  more 
freedom  I  had.  I  cried  independently  of  all  my  aunts  and 
cousins.  They  could  n't  dictate  me  in  that. 

"  Years  passed  on,  and  I  grew  older,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
I  grew  without  any  consent  of  my  own,  sir,  and  found  my 
self  in  jacket  and  trousers  ditto.  I  was  sent  to  school,  and 
was  told  to  study  Greek  and  Latin,  and  Algebra,  and  Pneu 
matics,  and  Hydrostatics,  and  a  dozen  or  twenty  other  things, 
the  very  names  of  which  I  have  forgotten,  but  which  I  well 
remember  bothered  me  considerably  in  those  days.  I  had 
much  rather  have  studied  the  laws  of  my  own  being ;  much 
rather  have  examined  and  become  acquainted  with  the  archi 
tecture  of  my  own  bodily  frame ;  much  rather  have  studied 
something  more  intimately  connected  with  the  realities  of  my 
own  existence ;  but  they  made  me  study  what  was  repulsive  to 
my  own  mind,  aud  speak  big  words  which  I  did  n't  under 
stand,  and  which  my  teacher  couldn't  explain  without  the 
aid  of  a  dictionary. 

"  My  parents  labored  under  the  strange  delusion  that  I  was 
a  wonderful  child.  I  don't  know  why,  unless  it  was  because 
I  didn't  know  anything  of  life,  and  I  could  repeat  a  little 
Latin,  stumble  through  a  sentence  of  Greek,  and,  after  having 
solved  a  problem  seventy-six  thousand  times  to  show  my 
wonderful  precociousness,  could  do  it  again  when  called 
upon.  Perhaps  I  'm  extravagant.  It  was  n't  more  than  half 


200  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

that  number  of  times.  At  any  rate,  sir,  I  was  thought  a 
prodigy  —  a  most  astonishing  intellectual  —  I  don't  know 
what, —  call  it  mushroom, —  because  Avhat  I  had  done  so 
many  times  I  could  do  again. 

"  I  recollect  there  was  a  little  youngster  of  my  acquaint 
ance, —  a  charming,  flaxen-haired,  blue-eyed  boy, —  who  told 
me,  one  day,  that  he  did  n't  care  for  the  dead  languages,  he 
had  rather  know  the  live  ones.  I  thought  so  too,  and  we 
talked  a  long  time,  down  behind  old  Turner's  barn,  about 
what  should  be  and  what  should  n't.  But  I  had  to  go  home. 
I  had  to  be  pulled  about,  this  arm  with  this  wire,  and  that 
foot  with  that  Avire.  I  had  to  do  this  and  that,  to  study 
this  and  study  that,  because  —  why,  because  I  was  an  Au 
tomaton,  sir.  I  was  born  such.  'T  was  in  my  bones  to  be 
an  Automaton. 

"My  school-days  passed,  and  the  minister  told  my  father 
that  if  he  was  him  he  'd  send  me  to  college.  lie — my  father  — 
did  n't  sleep  any,  that  night.  He  and  my  mother  kept 
awake  till  daylight  prognosticating  my  career,  and  fixing 
upon  a  day  when  I  should  go  to  Cambridge. 

' '  That  day  came.  I  remember  it  was  a  cloudy  day.  There 
was  a  dull  shadow  over  everything.  Yes,  even  over  my 
heart.  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  college.  I  knew  I  hadn't 
been  allowed  to  learn  anything  I  wanted  to  learn  out  of  it : 
and  I  knew  I  should  n't  do  any  better  shut  up  within  its  old 
dingy,  musty,  brick  walls.  I  knew  I  should  n't  learn  any 
thing  there.  I  had  rather  be  out  in  the  world.  I  had  rather 
be  studying  in  Nature's  great  college.  I  had  rather  gradu 
ate  with  a  diploma  from  God,  written  on  my  heart,  than  to 
waste  years  of  life  away  from  the  great  school  of  human  life ; 
to  be  told  by  another  how  /  should  go,  what  /should  believe, 
and  how  /  should  act,  in  the  great  drama  of  life.  But  I 
had  to  go,  sir, —  go  to  college;  for  I  was  an  Automaton. 

"  As  I  before  said,  the  day  was  cloudy.     Mother  dressed 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF   AN   AUTOMATON.  201 

me  up.  For  a  week  preparations  had  been  making  for  my 
exit,  and  finally  I  went.  I  was  put  in  a  stage  where  three 
men  were  smoking.  I  objected,  and  intimated  that  it  would 
be  much  better  if  those  who  smoked  rode  on  the  outside ;  but 
my  father  said,  '  hush,'  and  told  me  that  smoking  was  com 
mon  at  college,  and  I  must  get  used  to  it.  When  the  stage 
stopped  to  change  horses,  the  men  got  out,  and  swore,  and 
drank  brandy  ;  and  I  asked  whether  such  things  were  com 
mon  at  college,  and  whether  I  had  got  to  get  used  to  them 
too.  But  I  could  n't  get  any  answer. 

"  The  wind  blew  cold,  but  my  coat  was  made  so  small  that 
I  could  n't  button  it  together.  /  would  have  had  it  loose 
and  easy,  and  warm  and  comfortable  ;  but  't  was  n't  fashion 
able  to  have  it  so.  Father  followed  fashion,  and  I  suffered 
from  the  cold.  I  had  a  nice,  soft  cap,  that  I  used  to  Aveai 
to  church  at  home;  but  father  thought  that,  as  I  was  going  to 
the  city,  I  must  have  a  hat ;  so  he  had  bought  me  one,  and 
the  hard,  stiff,  ungainly  thing  was  stuck  on  my  head.  I 
had  as  lieves  have  had  a  piece  of  stove-pipe  there.  It  made 
my  head  ache  awfully. 

"  If  I  had  n't  been  what  I  was,  I  should  have  worn  a  nice, 
easy  pair  of  shoes  ;  but  I  was  an  Automaton.  I  was  n't  any 
body  ;  so  I  was  made  to  wear  a  pair  of  thin  boots,  that  clung 
to  my  feet  a  great  deal  closer  than  my  skin  did, —  a  great 
deal,  sir. 

"  Well,  we  reached  Cambridge.  It's  a  pretty  place,  you 
know  ;  and  I  rather  liked  it  until  I  arrived  at  the  college 
buildings.  Then  I  did  n't  like  the  looks  of  anything,  except 
the  green  trees,  and  the  grass,  and  the  shady  walks.  And  I 
wondered  where  I  could  learn  the  most  useful  knowledge, 
within  or  without  the  college: 

' '  I  was  ushered  in,  and  my  college  life  began.  To  narrate 
to  you  all  that  made  up  that  life,  would  be  irksome  to  me 
and  tedious  to  you.  I  was  taught  much  that  I  didn't 


202  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

believe  then,  and  don't  believe  now,  and  don't  think  I  ever 
shall.  I  was  made  to  subscribe  to  certain  forms,  and  with 
my  lips  to  adopt  certain  views,  which  my  heart  all  the  time 
rebelled  against,  and  reason  told  me  were  false.  But  I  said 
I  believed,  and  I  did  believe  after  the  fashion  of  the  times ; 
for  I  believe  it 's  fashionable  to  believe  what  you  don't  know 
anything  about,  and  the  more  of  this  belief  you  have  the 
better  you  are.  So  I  believed  what  my  teachers  told  me, 
because  —  why,  because  I  was  an  Automaton. 

"  When  I  returned  home,  I  found  myself,  quite  unexpect 
edly,  a  lion.  All  the  neighbors  flocked  in  to  see  the  young 
man  who  'd  been  to  college,  and  in  the  evening  a  dozen  young 
ladies  —  marriageable  young  ladies  —  called  on  me.  I  tried 
to  have  a  pleasant  time ;  and  should  have  had,  if  I  had  n't 
been  pulled  and  pushed,  and  made  a  puppet-show  of ;  made 
to  go  through  all  my  college  exercises,  to  please  the  pride  of 
my  immediate  relatives,  and  minister  to  the  wonder-loving 
souls  of  their  friends.  But,  though  I  did  n't  want  to  do  all 
this,  though  I  had  much  preferred  to  have  sat  down  and  had 
a  quiet  talk  with  one  or  two, —  talked  over  all  that  had  taken 
place  during  my  absence,  our  lives  and  loves, —  yet  I  was 
obliged  to,  sir.  I  was  an  Automaton. 

"  One  day, — it  was  but  a  week  after  I  had  returned, — my 
father  took  me  into  his  room,  and  said  he  had  something  to 
say  to  me.  I  knew  very  well,  before  he  said  so,  that  some 
thing  out  of  the  usual  course  was  to  take  place ;  for,  all  the 
morning,  he  had  been  as  serious  and  reserved  as  a  deacon  at 
a  funeral,  and  I  had  caught  him  holding  sly  talks  with  my 
mother  in  out-of-the-way  places. —  I  knew  something  was  to 
happen. 

"I  sat  down,  and  he  did.  And  then  he  went  on  to  say 
that  I  had  probably  had  some  thoughts  of  marriage.  I 
merely  responded,  '  Some.' 

"  He  then  remarked  that  every  young  man  should  calculate 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF   AN    AUTOMATON.  203 

to  get  a  wife  and  settle  down  ;  and  that  '  old  folks '  had  had 
experience,  and  knew  a  vast  deal  more  about  such  things 
than  young  folks  did ;  and  that  the  latter,  when  they  followed 
the  advice  of  the  former,  always  were  well-to-do  in  the  world, 
always  were  respected. 

"  I  began  to  see  what  he  was  driving  at.  I  looked  very 
serious  at  him,  and  he  a  great  deal  more  so  at  me. 

"He  talked  to  me  half  an  hour;  it  was  the  longest  half-hour 
I  had  known  since  I  first  measured  time.  He  expatiated  on 
the  wisdom  of  old  people  ;  told  me  I  was  inexperienced.  /, 
who  had  been  to  college  !  /,  who  had  lived  a  city  life  !  / 
was  inexperienced  !  But  I  let  him  go  on  —  I  could  n't  help 
it  —  you  know  what  I  was. 

"  He  then  drew  his  chair  closer  mine,  lowered  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  and  said, 

"  '  I  've  picked  out  a  wife  for  you.  It 's  Squire  Parsons' 
daughter,  Susan  Jane  Maria.  She  '11  be  an  excellent  wife  to 
you,  and  mother  to  your  children.' 

"If  I  had  been  anything  else  than  what  I  was,  I  should 
have  sprang  up  and  declared  my  own  ability  to  choose  a  wife 
for  me  and  '  a  mother  for  my  children : '  but  I  did  n't  do 
any  such  thing.  I  nodded  a  calm  assent  to  all  he  said ;  for 
you  know,  sir,  I  was  an  Automaton. 

"I  was  to  go  with  my  father,  that  night,  and  see  Susan, — 
she  that  was  to  be  my  Susan, —  0,  no,  not  so  ;  /was  to  be 
her  Jacob.  So,  when  tea  was  over,  and  I  had  been  '  fixed 
up,' — I  was  fixed,  I  tell  you, —  father  led  the  way  over 
Higginses'  rough  pasture.  /  should  have  gone  round,  in  the 
road,  Avhere  it  was  decent  walking,  if  I  had  been  anybody  j 
but  I  Avasn't  any  one  ;  I  was  a  —  well,  you  know  what.  I 
got  one  of  my  boots  full  of  water,  and  father  fell  down  and 
bruised  his  nose  ;  but  I  took  off  my  boot  and  poured  the 
water  out,  and  he  put  a  piece  of  court-plaster  on  his  nose, — 


204  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

a  great  black  piece, — and  we  did  n't  look  as  bad  as  we  might, 
so  he  said ;  and  so  I  said,  '  of  course.' 

"  Susan  was  at  home,  seated  in  the  middle  of  a  great  room, 
as  if  on  exhibition ;  and  perhaps  she  was, —  I  thought  so.  I 
had  seen  Susan  before,  and  always  disliked  her.  There  was 
nothing  in  her  personal  appearance,  or  her  mind,  that  pleased 
me.  I  never  met  her  without  marking  her  future  life  as 
that  of  an  old  maid.  But  she  was  to  be  my  wife ;  father 
said  so,  mother  shouted  amen  ;  and  I  was  to  love  her,  and  so 
I  said  I  did,  '  of  course.' 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  knew  all  about  what  I  came  for; 
for  she  put  out  her  little  slim  hand,  that  never  made  a  loaf 
of  bread  nor  held  a  needle,  but  had  only  fingered  the  leaves 
of  Greek  and  Latin  Lexicons,  and  volumes  of  Zoology  and 
Ornithology,  and  thrummed  piano-keys, —  all  very  well  in 
their  place  (don't  think  I  depreciate  them),  but  very  bad 
when  their  place  is  so  large  that  there 's  no  room  for  anything 
else, —  very  bad,  sir. 

"As  she  took  my  hand  she  attempted  to  kiss  me ;  but,  being 
rather  shy,  I  dodged  when  I  saw  her  lips  a-coming,  and  they 
went  plump  on  to  father's  nose,  and  exploded  on  his  piece  of 
court- plaster. 

"  It  was  all  fixed  that  night,  and  I  was  to  be  married  one 
week  from  the  ensuing  Sunday. 

"  We  went  home.  I  received  a  smile  from  those  who  were 
so  considerate  as  to  hunt  me  up  a  wife. 

"  If  you  'd  seen  the  Grcentown  Gazette  a  fortnight  after, 
and  had  looked  at  the  list  of  marriages,  you  might  have  read, 
'  Married :  In  this  town,  by  Rev.  Ebenezer  Pilgrade,  Mr. 
Jacob  Jenkins,  Jr.  (recently  from  college),  to  Susan  Jane 
Maria  Parsons,  estimable  daughter  of  Nehemiah  Q.  Parsons ; 
all  of  this  place.' 

"  We  lived  at  home.  My  wife  soon  found  out  what  I  was, 
found  out  that  I  was  an  Automaton,  and  she  pulled  the  wires 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AN   AUTOMATON.  205 

and  put  me  in  motion,  in  any  way  she  wished.  I  opened  an 
office,  put  out  a  sign,  and  for  a  time  practised  law  and  physic, 
and  when  the  minister  was  sick  took  his  place  and  preached. 
I  preached  just  what  they  wanted  me  to.  I  felt  more  like 
an  Automaton  than  ever,  stuck  up  in  a  high  box,  talking  just 
what  had  been  talked  a  thousand  times  from  the  same  place. 
It  would  n't  do,  I  was  told,  to  have  any  ideas  of  my  own ; 
and,  if  had  them,  I  must  n't  speak  them.  So  my  parish  and 
me  got  along  pretty  well. 

"  Of  course  I  had  joined  the  church.  I  was  told  that  I 
must,  and  so  I  did ;  but  I  won't  tell  you  what  my  thoughts 
were  in  regard  to  what  I  was  told  to  believe,  for  that 's  deli 
cate  ground.  I  don't  know  what  your  religion  is,  sir,  and  I 
might  offend  you,  and  I  would  n't  do  so  for  the  world.  You 
see  I  am  an  Automaton  yet.  I  '11  do  just  as  you  want  me  to. 
I  hate  to  be  so ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  I  can't  be  otherwise. 
It 's  my  nature. 

"You  think  I  'm  prosy.  I  won't  say  much  more,  for  I  see 
you  take  out  your  watch  as  though  you  wished  I  'd  stop, 
that  you  might  go ;  so  I  '11  close  with  'finally,'  as  I  do  in 
preaching. 

"  Well,  then,  finally,  father  died,  mother  died,  Susan  run 
off,  and  I  've  become  almost  discouraged.  I  have  three 
children  to  take  care  of,  but  they  are  good  children.  They 
do  just  precisely  as  I  tell  them,  and  won't  do  anything  with 
out  asking  me  whether  it 's  right ;  and  I  ask  somebody  else. 
They  have  n't  got  any  minds  of  their  own,  any  more  than  I 
have.  They  '11  do  just  as  I  tell  them.  I  've  nobody  in  par 
ticular  now  to  tell  me  what  I  shall  do ;  so  I  take  everybody's 
advice,  and  try  to  do  as  everybody  wants  me  to  do.  I  've 
come  to  Boston  on  a  visit,  and  shall  go  back  to-night,  if  you 
think  best. 

"  Now  I  've  given  you  my  autobiography.  You  can  do 
just  what  you  want  to  with  it, —  print  it,  if  you  like.  Peo- 
18 


206  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

pie,  perhaps,  will  laugh  at  me  when  they  read  it;  but  perhaps 
there  are  other  Automatons  besides  me." 


He  came  to  a  full  stop  here ;  and,  as  it  was  getting  late,  I 
arose,  wished  him  well,  bade  him  good-bj,  and  left.  I  had 
proceeded  but  a  few  steps,  when  I  felt  a  touch  on  my  shoul 
der,  and,  turning,  found  it  was  the  Automaton,  who  had  come 
to  ask  me  whether  I  thought  he  had  better  go  home  that 
night. 


TO  THE  UNKNOWN  DONOR  OF  A  BOUQUET. 

RICHEST  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Lightly  fringed  with  evening  dew  ; 
Sparkling  as  from  Eden's  bowers, 
Brightly  tinted  —  beauteous  flowers ! 
•    Thee  I  've  found,  and  thee  I  '11  own, 
Though  from  one  to  me  unknown  ; 
Knowing  this,  that  one  who  '11  send 
Such  a  treasure  is  my  friend. 

"Who  hath  sent  thee  ?  —  Flora  knows, 
Forjvith  care  she  reared  the  rose. 
Lo  !  here  's  a  name  !  —  it  is  the  key 
That  will  unlock  the  mystery  ; 
This  will  tell  from  whom  and  why 
Thou  didst  to  my  presence  hie. 
Wait  —  the  hand  's  disguised  !  —  it  will 
Remain  to  me  a  mystery  still. 

But  I  'm  a  "  Yankee,"  and  can  "  guess  " 

Who  wove  this  flowery,  fairy  tress. 

Yea,  more  than  this,  I  almost  know 

Who  tied  this  pretty  silken  bow, 

Whose  hand  arranged  them,  and  whose  taste 

Each  in  such  graceful  order  placed. 

Yet,  if  unknown  thou  'dst  rather  be, 

Let  me  wish  this  wish  for  thee  : 

May'st  thou  live  in  joy  forever, 
Naught  from  thee  true  pleasure  sever  ; 
From  thy  heart  arise  no  sigh  ; 
May  no  tear  bedew  thine  eye. 


208  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

Joys  be  many,  cares  be  few, 
Smooth  the  path  thou  shalt  pursue  ; 
And  heaven's  richest  blessings  shine 
Ever  on  both  thee  and  thine. 

Bound  thy  path  may  fairest  flowers, 
As  in  amaranthine  bowers, 
Bloom  and  blossom  bright  and  fair, 
Load  with  sweets  the  ambient  air  ! 
Be  thy  path  with  roses  strewn, 
All  thy  hours  to  care  unknown  ; 
Sorrow  cloud  thy  pathway  never, 
Happiness  be  thine  forever. 


TO  A  SISTER  IN   HEAVEN 

SISTER,  in  thy  spirit  home, 

Knowest  thou  my  path  below  ?  * 
Knowest  thou  the  steps  I  roam, 

And  the  devious  road  I  go  ? 
Many  years  have  past  since  I 

Bade  thee  here  a  sad  farewell ; 
Many  past  since  thou  didst  die, 

Since  I  heard  thy  funeral  knell. 

Thou  didst  go  when  thou  wast  young  ; 

Scarcely  hadst  thou  oped  thine  eyes 
To  the  world,  and  it  had  flung 

Its  bright  sunshine  from  the  skies, 
Ere  thy  Maker  called  for  thee, 

Thou  obeyed  his  high  behest ; 
Then  I  mourned,  yet  knew  thou  'dst  be 

Throned  on  high  among  the  blest. 

Gently  thou  didst  fold  thy  wing, 
Gently  thou  didst  sink  in  sleep  ; 

Birds  their  evening  songs  did  sing, 
And  the  evening  shades  did  creep 


TO    A   SISTER,   IN  HEAVEN.  209 

Through  the  casement,  one  by  one, 

Telling  of  departing  day  ; 
Then,  thou  and  the  glorious  sun 

Didst  together  pass  away. 

Yet  that  sun  hath  rose  since  then, 

And  hath  brought  a  joy  to  me  ; 
Emblem  't  is  time  will  be  when 

Once  again  I  shall  see  thee, — 
See  thee  in  immortal  bloom, 

Numbered  with  the  ransomed  throng, 
Where  no  sorrow  sheds  its  gloom 

O'er  the  heart,  or  chills  the  song. 

Spirit  sister,  throned  on  high, 

Now  methinks  I  hear  thee  speak 
From  thy  home  within  the  sky, 

In  its  accents  low  and  meek. 
Thou  art  saying,  "  Banish  sadness ; 

God  is  love,  —  0,  trust  him  ever  ! 
Heaven  is  filled  with  joy  and  gladness  — 

It  shall  be  thy  home  forever." 

This  thou  sayest,  and  thy  voice, 

Like  to  none  of  earth  I  've  heard, 
Bids  my  fainting  soul  rejoice  ; 

Follow  God's  revealed  word, 
Follow  that,  't  is  faithful  true  ; 

'Mid  the  trackless  maze  of  this, 
It  will  guide  the  pilgrim  through 

To  a  world  of  endless  bliss. 

Sister,  in  thy  spirit  home, 

Thou  dost  know  my  path  below, 
Thou  dost  know  the  steps  I  roam, 

And  the  road  I  fain  would  go. 
If  my  steps  would  err  from  right, 

If  I  'd  listen  to  the  wrong, 
If  I  'd  close  my  eyes  to  light. 

Mingle  with  earth's  careless  throng  : 

18* 


210  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

Then  wilt  thou  with  power  be  nigh  ; 

Power  which  angel  spirits  wield, 
That  temptation  may  pass  by, 

Be  thou  near  my  soul  to  shield  ! 
As  I  close  this  simple  lay, 

As  I  over  it  do  bow, 
Sister,  thou  art  round  my  way, 

Thou  art  standing  near  me  now. 


I   DREAMED    OF   THEE,    LAST    NIGHT, 
LOVE! 

I  DREAMED  of  thec  last  night,  love, 
And  I  thought  that  one  came  down 

From  scenes  of  azure  light,  love, 
The  most  beautiful  to  crown. 

He  wandered  forth  where  diamonds 

And  jewels  rich  and  rare 
Shone  brightly  'mid  the  glittering  throng, 

Yet  crowne'd  no  one  there. 

He  passed  by  all  others, 

Till  he  came  to  where  thou  stood ; 

And  chose  thee  as  the  beautiful, 
Because  thou  wast  so  good. 

And  said,  as  there  he  crowned  thee, 

That  Goodness  did  excel 
The  jewels  all  around  thee 

In  which  beauty  seemed  to  dwell. 

For  Goodness  is  that  beauty 

Which  will  forever  last ; 
Then,  crowning  thee  most  beautiful, 

From  earth  to  heaven  he  passed. 


MAN    CANNOT   LIVE   AND   LOVE    NOT.  211 


THEY    TELL    OF    HAPPY   BOWERS. 

THEY  tell  of  happy  bowers, 

Where  rainbow-tinted  flowers      •  * 
Bloom  bright  with  sweetest  fragrance,  and  never,  never  die  ; 

Where  friends  are  joined  forever, 

Where  parting  hours  come  never, 
And  that  that  happier  land  is  far  beyond  the  sky ;  — 

That  when  this  life  is  ended 

The  spirit  there  ascended 
Shall  meet  in  happy  unison  the  spirits  gone  before  ; 

And  all  that  here  hath  vexed  us, 

With  seeming  ill  perplexed  us, 
We  shall  see  was  for  the  best,  and  God  of  all  adore. 

Then,  brother,  hope  and  cheer  thee, 

For  glorious  hours  are  near  thee, 
If  thou  but  livest  holy,  and  hope,  and  trust,  and  wait ; 

Soon,  trials  all  departed, 

Thou,  heavenward,  homeward  started, 
Shalt  find  a  glorious  entrance  at  heaven's  golden  gate. 


MAN    CANNOT  LIVE   AND   LOVE    NOT 

MAN  cannot  live  and  love  not ; 

Around,  beneath,  above, 
There  is  that 's  bright  and  beautiful, 

And  worthy  of  his  love  ; 
There  is  in  every  object 

That  works  out  nature's  plan, 
Howe'er  so  low  and  humble, 

That 's  worth  the  love  of  man. 

Each  blade  of  grass  that  springeth 

From  earth  to  beauty  fair  ; 
Each  tiny  bird  that  wingeth  r 

Its  course  through  trackless  air  ; 


212  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

Each  worm  that  crawls  beneath  thee, 
Each  creature,  great  and  small, 

Is  worthy  of  thy  loving  ; 

For  God  hath  made  them  all. 

Should  earthly  Mends  forsake  thee, 

And  earth  to  thee  look  drear  ; 
Should  morning's  dark  forebodings 

But  fill  thy  soul  with  fear, 
Look  up  !  and  cheer  thy  spirit  — 

Up  to  thy  God  above ;   ' 
He  '11  be  thy  friend  forever  — 

Forever  !  —  "  God  is  Love  !  " 


B'ETTER  THAN   GOLD. 

"  Find  we  Lorenzo  wiser  for  his  wealth  ? 
What  if  thy  rental  I  inform,  and  draw 
An  inventory  new  to  set  thee  right  ? 
Where  is  thy  treasure  ?  Gold  says,  '  Not  in  me  ! ' 
And  not  in  me,  the  diamond.     Gold  is  poor, 

Indies  insolvent .     Seek  it  in  thyself, 

Seek  in  thy  naked  self,  and  find  it  there." 
' 

GOLD  is,  in  itself,  harmless  —  brilliant,  beautiful  to  look 
upon ;  but,  when  maji  entertains  an  ungovernable,  all-absorb 
ing  love  of  it,  gold  is  his  curse  and  a  mill-stone  around  his 
neck,  drawing  him  down  to  earth.  How  much  sorrow  that 
love  has  caused !  0,  there  is  love  that  is  angelic !  But  high 
and  holy  as  love  is  when  bestowed  upon  a  worthy  object,  in 
like  proportion  is  it  base  and  ignoble  when  fixed  upon  that 
"which  is  unworthy. 

It  may  well  be  questioned  whether,  taking  a  broad  view 
of  the  matter,  gold  has  not  produced  more  evil  than  good. 
Point  out,  if  you  can,  one  crime,  be  it  the  most  heinous  and 
inhuman  of  which  you  can  possibly  conceive,  that  has  not 
been  perpetrated  for  the  sake  of  gold,  or  has  not  its  equal  in 
the  history  of  the  battle  for  wealth.  We  can  conceive  of  no 
worse  a  thing  than  a  human  soul  idolizing  a  mass  of  shining 
metal,  and  counting  out,  with  lean  and  tremulous  hands,  the 
coined  dollars.  Late  and  early  the  devotee  bows  at  the 
shrine.  No  motive  can  induce  him  to  remove  his  fixed  gaze 
from  the  god  he  worships.  No  act  too  base  for  him  to  exe 
cute  if  gold  holds  out  its  glittering  purse.  No  tears  of 


214  TOWN  A'ND    COUNTKY. 

widows,  no  orphan's  cry,  no  brother's  famishing  look,  no  pa 
rent's  imploring  gaze,  no  wife's  loving  appeal,  doth  he  heed ; 
but  on,  and  on,  day  by  day,  night  by  night,  he  rakes  together 
the  scattered  fragments,  rears  his  altar,  and  lays  his  soul 
upon  it,  a  burnt  sacrifice  to  his  God. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  the  trial,  and  the  excitement  was 
intense.  The  court-house  was  filled  at  an  early  hour  to  its 
utmost  capacity,  whilst  the  lanes  leading  to  it  were  completely 
blocked  up  with  crowds  of  inquisitive  inquirers.  The  pro 
fessor  left  his  study,  the  trader  his  accounts,  and  the  mechanic 
dismissed  for  a  while  the  toil  of  his  avocation. 

The  judges  had  arrived ;  the  counsel  of  both  parties  were 
at  their  respective  desks;  all  were  eager  to  get  a  full  sight  — 
if  not  this,  a  passing  glance  —  at  the  prisoner's  face.  They 
were  looking  for  his  arrival,  and  if  a  close  carriage  drew  near, 
they  believed  he  was  within,  until  the  carriage  passing  by 
withered  all  their  hopes,  and  blasted  their  fond  expectations. 
Such  was  the  state  of  feeling  when  a  rumor  began  to  pass 
round  that  he,  the  prisoner,  had  been  privately  conveyed  into 
court.  Some  believed,  and  some  disbelieved;  some  went 
away,  whilst  others  remained,  not  giving  up  all  hope  of  having 
their  desire  gratified.  —  But  why  all  this  '? 

Pedro  Castello,  a  young  man,  an  Italian  by  birth,  had  been 
indicted,  and  was  soon  to  be  tried,  charged  with  two  hein 
ous  crimes  —  murder  and  robbery.  The  murdered  was  an 
aged  person,  one  of  a  very  quiet  and  sedate  character,  whose 
every  movement  seemed  to  be  by  stealth,  and  who  seemed  to 
care  for  none  but  himself,  but  who  took  particular  interest  in 
what  he  did  care  for.  This  individual  had.  for  quite  a  num 
ber  of  years,  been  a  resident  in  the  town  where  the  incidents 
we  now  propose  to  relate  transpired. 

Lorenzo  Pedan  had  the  reputation  of  being  wealthy. 
Whether  he  was  so  or  not,  no  one  could  positively  determine; 
at  least,  many  thought  so,  and  here  a  farmer,  there  a  me- 


BETTER   THAN   GOLD.  215 

chanic,  offered  to  bet  all  that  he  was  worth  that  "Renzo," 
as  he  was  called,  could  show  his  fifty  thousand.  It  was  well 
known  that  he  was  once  in  prosperous  business ;  that  then, 
as  the  saying  is,  he  moved  on  "swimmingly."  But,  two  or 
three  years  previous  to  the  time  we  now  speak  of,  he  sud 
denly  gave  up  business,  closed  his  store,  hired  a  small  and 
retired  house,  and  lived  in  as  secluded  a  state  as  living  in  the 
world  and  not  in  a  forest  would  admit  of.  He  was  his  own 
master,  his  own  servant,  cook  and  all  else.  Visitors  seldom 
if  ever  darkened  his  door ;  and,  when  necessity  obliged  him 
to  leave  his  house,  it  was  with  the  utmost  precaution  he  made 
fast  his  door  before  starting.  Proceeding  a  short  distance, 
he  became  possessed  with  the  idea  that  all  was  not  right,  and 
would  return  to  his  dwelling  closely  to  scrutinize  every  part. 
This  and  many  other  characteristics  of  Pedan  induced  a 
belief  in  the  minds  of  his  townsmen  that  he  had  by  degrees 
become  possessed  of  an  avaricious  disposition,  and  that  his 
miserly  views  of  the  "  whole  duty  of  man  "  had  induced 
him  to  secrete  huge  boxes  of  silver,  and  bags  of  gold  in 
crevices  of  his  cellar,  vacancies  in  his  chimney,  and  musty 
and  dusty  corners  of  his  garret. 

Various  were  the  tricks  played  upon  Lorenzo  by  the  boys 
of  the  town.  At  times  they  would  place  logs  of  wood  against 
his  door,  and  arrange  them  in  such  a  position  that  when  the 
door  was  opened  they  would  inevitably  fall  in ;  yet  he  did 
not  care  for  this, —  we  mean  he  found  no  fault  with  this  trick, 
for  he  usually  claimed  the  fuel  for  damages  occasioned  by 
its  coming  in  too  close  proximity  with  his  aged  self. 

Sometimes  these  "  villanous  boys,"  as  widow  Todd,  a 
notorious  disseminator  of  town  scandal,  called  them,  would 
fasten  his  door ;  then,  having  hid  behind  some  bushes,  laugh 
heartily  as  they  beheld  Mr.  Pedan  exhibit  himself  at  the 
window,  at  which  place  he  got  out.  We  will  nofr  attempt  to 
relate  one  half  or  one  quarter  of  these  tricks  ;  we  will  say 


216  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

nothing  of  sundry  cats,  kittens,  etc.,  that  were  crowded  into 
boxes  and  marked  "  Pedro  —  this  side  up  Avith  infinite  care ; " 
nor  about  certain  black,  white,  and  yellow  dogs,  that  were  tied 
to  all  his  door-handles,  and  made  night  hideous  in  the  exer 
cise  of  their  vocal  powers.  We  will  not  weary  our  readers 
with  such  details.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  they  were  all  perpe 
trated,  and  that  he.  the  aforesaid  Lorenzo  Pedan,  received 
the  indignities  heaped  upon  him  with  a  degree  of  patience 
and  fortitude  rivalled  only  by  that  of  the  martyrs  of  the 
dark  ages.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  martyr  to  his  love  of  gold  ; 
and  a  recompense  for  all  his  outward  troubles  was  the  satisfac 
tion  of  knowing  that  he  might  be  rich  some  time,  if  he  was 
prudent. 

Lorenzo  was  undoubtedly  rich,  yet  he  derived  no  enjoy 
ment  from  his  abundance  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  caused  him 
much  trouble,  care,  and  watchfulness;  and  not  possessing 
any  benevolent  feelings.,  prompting  him  to  spend  his  gold 
and  silver  for  his  own  good  or  the  good  of  his  fellow-men, 
the  poorest  man,  with  all  his  poverty,  —  he  who  only  by  his 
daily  toil  earned  his  daily  bread, —  was  far  more  wealthy 
than  he. 

He  passed  on  in  this  way  for  some  time,  when,  on  a  certain 
morning,  he  not  having  made  his  appearance  for  some  days 
previous,  his  door  was  burst  open,  and  the  expectations  of 
not  a  few  realized  upon  finding  him  murdered.  All  the  fur 
niture  and  even  the  wainscotings  of  the  house  were  thrown 
about  in  dread  disorder ;  scarcely  an  article  seemed  to  be  in 
its  right  place.  The  robber  or  robbers  were  undoubtedly  on' 
the  alert  for  money,  and  they  left  no  spot  untouched  where 
possibly  they  might  find  it.  They  pulled  up  parts  of  the 
floor,  tore  away  the  ceiling,  and  left  marks  of  their  visit  from 
cellar  to  garret. 

Immediate  efforts  were  made  and  measures  taken  to  ferret 
out  the  perpetrator  of  this  daring  crime.  These  were,  for  a 


BETTER  THAN   GOLD.  217 

considerable  length  of  time,  fruitless,  and,  the  excitement  that 
at  first  arose  being  somewhat  quelled,  some  thought  the 
search  that  had  been  instituted  was  given,  or  about  to  be 
given,  up,  when  a  man  by  the  name  of  Smith  came  forward, 
and  stated  that,  about  nine  days  previous  to  the  discov 
ery,  as  he  was  passing  the  house  of  the  deceased,  he  heard  a 
faint  cry,  as  of  one  in  distress,  and,  turning  round,  noticed 
a  young  man  running  in  great  haste.  He,  at  the  time, 
thought  little  of  this  incident,  as  he  supposed  the  boys  were 
engaged  in  some  of  their  tricks.  It  had  entirely  passed  his 
recollection,  until,  hearing  of  the  murder,  he  instantly  recol 
lected  the  circumstance,  and  now  he  did  not  entertain  a 
doubt  that  the  young  man  whom  he  saw  was  the  murderer. 

It  appeared  strange  to  some  that  this  man  had  not  made 
all  this  known  before ;  and  that  now,  at  so  late  a  period,  he 
should  come  forward  and  with  such  apparent  eagerness  make 
the  disclosures.  Being  asked  why  he  had  not  come  forward 
before,  he  promptly  replied  that  he  did  not  wish  to  suspect 
any  person,  for  fear  he  might  be  mistaken. 

Efforts  were  now  made,  and  excitement  had  again  risen, 
to  find  out  a  young  man  answering  the  description  given  by 
Smith,  whom  he  alleged  to  be  one  short  in  stature,  and  wear 
ing  a  fur  cap.  Jedro  Castello,  by  birth  an  Italian,  by  trade 
a  jeweller,  who  had  resided  in  the  town  a  few  years,  was  of 
this  description.  He  was  not  very  tall,  neither  very  short ; 
but  the  fur  cap  he  wore  made  up  all  deficiencies  in  stature. 
Smith  swore  to  his  identity,  and,  at  his  instigation,  he  was 
arrested,  and  with  great  coolness  and  self-possession  passed 
through  a  short  examination,  which  resulted  in  his  being 
placed  in  custody  to  await  his  trial  at  the  next  session  of  a 
higher  court.  The  only  evidence  against  him  was  that  of 
Smith  and  his  son  ;  that  of  the  former  was  in  substance  what 
lia»  already  been  stated,  and  that  of  the  latter  only  served  to 
support  and  partially  confirm  the  evidence  of  the  former.  A 
19 


218  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

host  of  townsmen  appeared  to  attest  to  the  good  character  of 
the  accused;  and,  with  such  evidence  for  and  against,  he  was 
committed. 

Never  was  man  led  to  prison  who  behaved  with  a  greater 
degree  of  composure.  Conscious  of  his  innocence,  he  acted 
not  the  part  of  a  guilty  man,  but,  relying  upon  justice  for 
an  impartial  trial,  he  walked  with  a  firm  step,  and  unflinch 
ingly  entered  a  felon's  cell. 

In  two  months  his  trial  was  to  commence,  and  that  short 
period  soon  elapsed.  The  morning  of  the  trial  came ;  all 
was  excitement,  as  we  have  before  said.  A  trial  for  murder  ! 
Such  an  event  forms  an  era  in  the  history  of  a  town,  from 
which  many  date.  That  one  so  long  esteemed  as  an  excel 
lent  neighbor,  and  of  whose  untarnished  character  there 
could  be  no  doubt,  should  be  suddenly  arrested,  charged  with 
the  committal  of  a  crime  at  the  thought  of  which  human 
nature  revolts,  was  a  fact  the  belief  of  which  was  hardly 
credible.  He  himself  remained  not  unmoved  by  the  vast 
concourse  of  spectators ;  he  thought  he  could  read  in  the 
pitying  glance  of  each  an  acquittal.  An  acquittal  at  the 
bar  of  public  opinion  always  has  and  always  will  be  esteemed 
of  more  value  than  one  handed  in  by  a  jury  of  twelve ;  yet 
by  that  jury  of  twelve  men  he  was  to  be  tried, —  he  must 
look  to  them  for  his  release,  if  he  was  to  obtain  it.  Their 
decision  would  condemn  him  to  an  ignoble  death,  or  bid  him 
go  £>rth  once  more  a  free  man.  He  had  obtained  the  best 
of  counsel,  by  whose  advice  he  selected,  from  twenty-five 
jurors,  twelve,  whose  verdict  was  to  seal  his  fate. 

The  trial  commenced.  A  deep  silence  prevailed,  broken 
only  by  the  voice  of  the  government  officer,  who  briefly 
stated  an  outline  of  the  facts,  to  wit :  "  That  murder  and  rob 
bery  had  been  committed ;  that  a  young  man  was  seen  hastily 
leaving  the  spot  upon  which  the  crime  was  committed ;  tljat 
the  appearance  of  the  defendant  was  precisely  that  of  the 


BETTER   THAN    GOLD.      .  219 

person  thus  seen  ;  said  he  should  not  enter  into  an  examina 
tion  of  the  previous  character  of  the  prisoner,  giving  as  a 
reason  that  a  man  may  live  long  as  a  person  of  unquestion 
able  character,  and  after  all  yield  to  some  strong  temptation 
and  fall  from  the  standard  of  excellence  he  had  hitherto  at 
tained  ;  he  should  present  all  the  facts  that  had  come  to  his 
knowledge,  tending  to  substantiate  the  charge,  and  would 
leave  it  to  the  prisoner  and  his  counsel  to  undermine  the  evi 
dence  he  presented,  and  to  prove  the  accused  innocent,  if 
possible  ;  all  that  he  should  do  would  be  to  attempt  to  prove 
him  guilty ;  if  he  failed  to  do  so  a  verdict  must  be  rendered 
accordingly."  Having  said  this,  he  called  upon  his  witnesses. 
Those  who  first  discovered  the  outrage  were  called  and  testi 
fied  to  what  they  saw.  John  Smith  was  next  called,  and 
gave  in  as  evidence  what  has  before  been  stated ;  at  the  close 
of  a  strict  cross-examination  he  returned  to  his  seat.  His 
son  Levi  was  next  called,  and  stated  that  his  father  was  out 
the  night  he  himself  stated  he  was ;  he  went  out  about  half- 
past  six  or  seven ;  did  not  say  where  he  was  going,  or  how 
long  he  should  be  out ;  he  came  home  about  eleven. 

Prisoner's  counsel  here  inquired  whether  it  was  usual,  upon 
his  father's  going  out,  to  state  where  he  was  going  or  when  he 
should  return.  He  answered  in  the  afiirmative.  This  was  all 
the  knowledge  Levi  Smith  had  of  the  affair,  and  with  this  the 
evidence  for  the  government  closed. 

The  counsel  for  the  defendant  stated,  in  the  opening,  that 
all  he  should  attempt  to  prove  would  be  the  bad  character  of  • 
the  principal  witness,  John  Smith,  and  the  unexceptionable 
character  of  the  prisoner.  He  would  prove  that  the  reputa 
tion  of  Smith  for  truth  and  veracity  was  bad,  and  that  there 
fore  no  reliance  could  be  placed  upon  his  statements.  He 
should  present  the  facts  as  they  were,  and  leave  it  to  them 
to  say  whether  his  client  was  innocent  or  guilty. 

A  person  by  the  name  of  Renza  was  first  called,  who 


220  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

stated  that  for  about  two  years  he  had  resided  in  the  house 
with  the  prisoner;  that  he  esteemed  him  as  a  friend ;  that  the 
prisoner  had  treated  him  as  a  brother, —  had  never  seen  any 
thing  amiss  in  his  conduct, —  at  night  he  came  directly  home 
from  his  place  of  business,  was  generally  in  at  nine,  seldom 
out  later  than  ten, —  remembered  the  night  in  question, — 
thought  he  was  in  about  ten,  but  was  not  certain  on  that 
point, —  had  been  acquainted  with  John  Smith  for  a  number 
of  years, —  had  not  said  much  to  him  during  that  time, —  had 
often  seen  him  walking  about  the  streets, —  had  known  him 
to  be  quarrelsome  and  avaricious,  easily  provoked,  and  rather 
lacking  in  good  principle.  After  a  few  cross-questions  the 
witness  took  his  seat. 

Seven  others  were  called,  whose  testimony  was  similar  to 
the  above,  placing  the  evidence  of  the  principal  government 
witness  in  rather  a  disagreeable  light.  The  evidence  being 
in  on  both  sides,  the  prisoner's  counsel  stood  forth  to  vindi 
cate  the  innocence  of  Castello.  For  three  hours  he  faith 
fully  advocated  the  cause,  dwelt  long  upon  the  reputation  of 
Smith,  and  asked  whether  a  man  should  be  convicted  upon 
such  rotten  evidence.  He  brought  to  light  the  character  of 
Smith,  and  that  of  Castello ;  placed  them  in  contrast,  and 
bade  them  judge  for  themselves.  He  wished  to  inquire  why 
Smith,  when  he  heard  the  terrible  scream,  when  he  saw  a  per 
son  running  from  the  place  Whence  the  sound  proceeded,  why, 
when  he  heard  and  beheld  a|i  this,  he  did  not  make  an  alarm; 
why  did  Smith  keep  it  a  secret,  and  not  till  nine  days  had 
elapsed  make  this  known  1  "  Perhaps  he  would  reply,"  ar 
gued  the  counsel,  ' '  that  he  did  not  wish  to  suspect  any  per 
son,  fearing  the  person  suspected  might  be  the  wrong  one  : 
if  so,  why  did  he  not  inform  of  the  person  he  saw  running  } 
If  he  was  not  the  doer  of  the  deed,  perhaps  he  might  relate 
something  that  would  lead  to  the  detection  of  him  who  was. 
Beside,  if  he  had  doubts  whether  it  was  right  to  inform  then, 


BETTER   THAN    GOLD.  221 

w.hy  does  he  do  so  now  with  so  much  eagerness  ?  It  would 
be  natural  for  one,  after  hearing  such  fearful  noises, —  after 
seeing  what  he  testifies  to  having  seen, — to  have  related  it  to 
some  one ;  but  no —  Smith  keeps  all  this  important  informa 
tion  treasured  up,  and  not  till  two  weeks  had  nearly  passed 
does  he  disclose  it.  But,  gentlemen,  I  have  my  doubts  as  to 
the  truth  of  John's  evidence.  It  is  my  firm  belief  that  he 
never  saw  a  person  running  from  that  house ;  he  might  have 
heard  the  noise  — - 1  will  not  dispute  that.  I  believe  his  story 
has  been  cut  and  dried  for  the  occasion,  and  surely  nine  days 
and  nights  have  afforded  him  ample  time  to  do  so.  The 
brains  of  an  ox  could  concoct  such  ideas  in  nine  days.  Now 
comes  the  inquiry,  why  should  he  invent  such  a  story  1  Of 
what  benefit  can  it  be  to  him  to  appear  in  a  crowded  court 
room?  Gentlemen,  I  confess  myself  unable  to  give  you  his 
reasons ;  to  him  and  to  his  God  they  are  only  known.  The 
veil  which,  in  my  opinion,  now  shrouds  -this  affair,  will  some 
day  be  withdrawn,  and  we  shall  know  the  truth,  even  as 
it  is." 

The  defence  here  closed.  The  office*  for  the  prosecution 
now  arose,  and  with  equal  faithfulness  and  ability  argued  his 
side  of  the  question.  He  thought  the  reasons  why  Snith 
had  not  before  informed  were  full  and  explicit;  and,  as  to 
the  testimony  of  the  eight  as  to  the  past  good  character  of 
the  prisoner,  he  saw  no  reason  why  a  man  should  be  always 
good  because  for  two  or  more  years  he  had  been  so.  A 
great  temptation  was  presented;  he  was  young — perhaps  at 
the  moment  regardless  of  the  result,  the  penalty  of  the  crime ; 
he  did  not  resist,  but  yielded ;  and  as  to  the  argument  of  the 
learned  counsel,  that  Mr.  S.  did  not  see  what  he  testifies  •  to 
have  seen,  it  is  useless  to  refute  such  an  unfounded  allega 
tion.  Can  you  suppose  Smith  to  be  benefited  by  this  pros- 
^cution  further  than  to  see  justice  have  its  dues  ?  Settle  it 
then  in  your  minds  that  Mr.  Smith  did  actually  see  all  he 
10* 


222  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

says  he  did.  We  come  next  to  the  description  given  by 
Smith  of  the  man  seen.  He  said  he  was  short  in  stature, 
and  wearing  a  fur  cap.  Look  at  the  prisoner, —  is  he  not 
short  ?  —  and  the  testimony  of  two  of  the  previous  witnesses 
distinctly  affirm  that  for  the  past  six  weeks  he  has  worn  a 
fur  cap.  What  more  evidence  do  you  want  to  prove  his 
guilt  ? 

The  prosecuting  officer  here  closed.  We  have  given  but  a 
faint  outline  of  his  remarks ;  they  were  forcible  and  to  the 
point. 

It  was  near  the  dusk  of  the  second  day's  trial  that  the 
judge  arose  to  charge  the  jury.  He  commented  ratlier 
severely  upon  the  attempt  to  impeach  the  character  of  Smith. 
His  address  was  not  lengthy,  and  in  about  thirty  minutes  the 
jury  retired,  while  a  crowded  audience  anxiously  Availed  their 
return.  It  was  not  till  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun  began 
to  be  seen  that  it  Avas  rumored  that  they  had  arrived  at  a 
decision  and  Avould  soon  enter.  All  Avas  silent  as  the  tomb. 
The  prisoner,  although  aAvare  that  his  life  was  at  slake,  sat 
in  great  composure,  .frequently  holding  com-erse  with  his 
friends  Avho  gathered  around.  How  anxiously  all  eves  Avere 
turned  towards  the  door  by  Avhich  they  were  to  enter.  Avish- 
ing,  yet  dreading,  to  hear  the  final  set-ret  !  The  interest  of 
all  watched  their  movements  and  seemed  to  read  arquittul 
upon  each  juror's  face.  The  prisoner  arose,  the  foreman  and 
he  looking  each  other  in  the  face.  The  clerk  put  the  ques 
tion,  "Guilty,  or  not  guilty?"  The  ticking  of  the  clock 
was  distinctly  heard.  "  Guilty  ! "  responded  the  foreman.  A 
verdict  so  unexpected  by  all  could  not  be  received  in  silence, 
and,  as  Avith  one  voice,  the  multitude  shouted  "False! 
false!  FALSE  !  "  With  great  difficulty  were  they  silenced 
and  restrained  from  rescuing  the  prisoner,  who,  though 
greatly  disappointed,  heard  the  verdict  without  much  agit;i-  . 
tion.  Innocent,  he  was  convinced  that  justice  would  finally 


BETTER   THAN   GOLD.  223 

triumph,  though  injustice  for  a  moment  might  seem  to  have 
the  ascendency. 

One  week  had  passed.  Sentence  had  been  pronounced  upon 
the  young  Italian,  and,  notwithstanding  the  strenuous  efforts 
his  friends  made  for  his  pardon,  he  was  committed  to  prison  to 
await  the  arrival  of  that  day  when  innocence  should  suffer  in 
the  place  of  guilt,  and  he  should  by  the  rough  hands  of  the 
law  be  unjustly  dragged  to  the  gallows,  and  meet  his  death  at 
so  wretched  a  place ;  yet  far  better  was  it  for  him,  and  of 
this  was  he  aware,  to  be  led  to  that  place  free  from  the  blood 
of  all  men,  than  to  proceed  there  a  guilty  criminal,  his  hands 
dyed  in  the  warm  blood  of  a  fellow-creature,  pointed  out  as  a 
murderer,  and  looked  upon  but  with  an  eye  of  condemnation. 
He  was  certain  that  in  the  breasts  of  hundreds  a  spark,  yea, 
a  burning  flame,  of  pity  shone  for  him, —  that  he  met  not  his 
death  uncared  for, —  that  many  a  tear  would  flow  in  pity  for 
him,  and  that  he  would  wend  his  way  to  the  scaffold  com 
forted  by  the  consciousness  of  his  innocence,  and  consoled  by 
many  dear  friends. 

The  day  had  arrived  for  the  execution,  and  crowds  of  people 
flocked  to  the  spot  to  gratify  their  love  of  sight-seeing  —  to 
allay  their  curiosity  —  even  though  that  sight  were  nothing 
less  than  the  death  of  a  fellow-being.  Crowds  had  assem 
bled.  A  murder  had  been,  committed,  and  now  another  was 
to  follow.  To  be  sure  it  was  to  be  executed  "  according  to 
law,"  but  that  law  was  inspired  with  the  spirit  of  revenge. 
Its  motto  was  "blood  for  blood."  It  forgot  the  precepts  of 
Christ,  "forgive  your  enemies;"  and  that  that  which  is  a 
wrong  when  committed  by  one  in  secret,  is  no  less  a  wrong 
when  committed  by  many,  or  by  their  sanction,  in  public.  The 
condemned  stood  upon  the  death-plank,  yet  he  hoped  justice 
would  be  done.  "Hope!"  what  a  cheering  word  !  'twill 
nerve  man  for  every  trial.  Yes,  Castello  hoped,  and  relied 


224  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

upon  that  kind  arm  that  had  hitherto  supported  him,  and  had 
enabled  him  to  bear  up  under  an  accumulated  mass  of  afflic 
tion.  He  had  a  full  consciousness  of  innocence,  and  to  the 
oft-repeated  inquiry  as  to  his  state  of  mind  he  replied,  "I 
am  innocent,  and  that  truth  is  to  me  better  than  gold." 

It  lacks  but  five  minutes  of  the  appointed  time  —  now  but 
three — but  two.  But  yonder  the  crowd  seem  excited.  What 
is  the  cause  of  the  sudden  movement?  But  a  few  moments 
since  and  all  were  silently  gazing  at  the  centre  of  attraction, 
the  scaffold.  Lo,  a  messenger,  breathless  with  haste,  shout 
ing  " INNOCENT!  INNOCENT!  INNOCENT!"  and  a  passage 
is  made  for  him  to  approach,  whilst  thousands  inquire  the 
news.  He  answers  not,  save  by  that  shrill  shout,  "  INNO 
CENT  ! "  and  pressing  forward  touches  the  gallows  just  as 
Castello  is  about  to  be  launched  forth.  The  stranger  ascends 
the  steps  and  begs  that  the  execution  may  be  deferred,  at 
least  until  he  can  relate  some  recent  disclosures.  His  wish 
is  granted,  and  he  speaks  nearly  as  follows : 

"  The  testimony  of  the  principal  witness  was  doubted.  Last 
night  I  remained  at  the  house  of  Smith.  Owing  to  the  great 
excitement  I  did  not  retire  to  rest,  and  sat  in  a  room  adjoin 
ing  that  in  which  Smith  lodged.  About  midnight  I  heard  a 
voice  in  that  room.  I  went  to  the  door,  and,  fearing  he  was 
sick  and  desired  aid,  I  entered.  He  was  asleep,  and  did  not 
awake  upon  my  entering,  but  continued  talking.  I  thought 
it  strange,  and  thinking  I  might  be  amused,  and  having 
nothing  else  to  do,  I  sat  and  listened.  He  spoke  in  some 
what  this  manner,  and  you  may  judge  of  my  surprise  while 
I  listened : 

"  '  I  'm  rich  ;  too  bad  Pedro  should  die ;  but  I  'm  rich  ; 
no  matter,  I  'm  rich.  Kings  kill  their  millions  for  a  little 
money.  I  only  kill  one  man  ;  in  six  months  't  will  be  for 
gotten  ;  then  I  '11  go  to  the  bank  of  earth  back  of  the  red 
mill  and  get  the  gold ;  I  placed  it  there  safe,  and  safe  it  is. 


BETTER -THAN   GOLD.  225 

Ha,  ha!  I  made  that  story  in  nine  days— so  I  did,  and  might 
have  made  it  in  less ;  let  him  die.  But  supposing  I  should 
be  detected ;  then  it  may  be  that  I  shall  find  that  Pedro  is 
right  when  he  says  there  is  something  better  than  gold.  But 
I  am  in  no  danger.  The  secret  is  in  my  own  heart,  locked 
up,  and  no  one  has  the  key  but  myself;  so  cheer  thee,  my 
soul,  I  'm  safe  !  —  and  yet  I  don't  feel  right.  I  shall  feel, 
when  Pedro  dies,  that  I  kill  him ;  but  why  should  I  care  ?  I, 
who  have  killed  one,  may  kill  another !' 

"  After  waiting  some  time,  and  hearing  no  more,  I  hastened 
to  the  spot  he  had  alluded  to,  for  the  purpose  of  satisfying 
myself  whether  what  he  had  ramblingly  spoken  of  was  truth 
or  fancy.  After  searching  the  hill  for  over  an  hour,  I  found 
a  stone,  or  rather  stumbled  against  it ;  I  threw  it  aside,  so 
that  others  might  not  stumble  over  it  as  I  had,  when  to  my 
astonishment  I  found  it  to  be  a  large  flat  one,  beneath  which 
I  found  a  collection  of  bags  and  boxes,  which  upon  opening  I 
found  filled  with  gold  and  silver  coin,  and  in  each  box  a  small 
paper, —  one  of  which  I  hold  in  my  hand ;  all  are  alike,  and 
written  upon  each  are  these  words : 

"'This  gold  and  silver  is  the  property  of  Pedan,  who 
enjoyed  it  but  little  himself;  he  leaves  it  to  posterity,  and 
hopes  that  they  may  find  more  pleasure  and  more  satisfaction 
in  its  use  than  he  ever  did.' 

"  Not  content  with  this,  I  pushed  my  researches  still  fur 
ther,  and,  having  taken  out  all  the  bags  and  boxes,  I  found 
this  knife,  all  bloody  as  you  see  it,  and  this  hatchet  in  nearly 
the  same  condition.  Now  I  ask  if  it  is  not  the  course  of 
justice  to  delay  the  execution  of  this  young  man  until  more 
examinations  can  be  made?" 

The  executioner  obeyed  the  mandate  of  the  sheriff,  and 
stayed  his  avenging  hand. 

"  Better  than  gold  !  "  shouted  the  prisoner,  and  sank  help 
less  upon  the  platform. 


226  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

That  day  John  Smith  was  arrested,  and,  being  bluntly 
charged  with  the  murder,  confessed  all.  Castello  was  imme 
diately  released,  and  went  forth  a  free  man. 

In  four  weeks  Smith  was  no  more  of  earth ;  he  had  paid 
the  penalty  of  his  crimes,  and  died  not  only  a  murderer  but 
a  perjured  man. 

The  next  Sabbath  the  pastor  of  the  church  discoursed  upon 
the  subject,  and  an  indescribable  thrill  pervaded  the  hearts 
of  some  of  the  people  as  they  repeated  the  "words,  "  Forgive 
us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against 
us." 


GONE  AWAY. 

HERE,  where  now  are  mighty  cities, 

Once  the  Indians'  wigwam  stood ; 
their  council-fires  illumined, 

Far  and  near,  the  tangled  wood. 
Here,  on  many  a  grass-grown  border, 

Then  they  met,  a  happy  throng ; 
Rock  and  hill  and  valley  sounded 

With  the  music  of  their  song. 
Now  they  are  not,  —  they  have  vanished, 

And  a  voice  doth  seem  to  say, 
•Unto  him  who  waits  and  listens, 

"  Gone  away,  —  gone  away." 

Yonder  in  those  valleys  gathered 

Many  a  sage  in  days  gone  by ; 
Thence  the  wigwam's  smoke  ascended, 

Slowly,  peacefully,  on  high. 
Indian  mothers  thus  their  children 

Taught  around  the  birchen  fire,  — 
"  Look  ye  up  to  the  great  Spirit ! 

To  his  hunting-grounds  aspire." 
Now  those  fires  are  all  extinguished  ; 

Fire  and  wigwam,  where  are  they  ? 
Hear  ye  not  those  voices  whispering, 

"  Gone  away,  —  gone  away  !  " 

Here  the  Indian  girl  her  tresses 
Braided  with  a  maiden's  pride  ; 

Here  the  lover  woped  and  won  her, 
On  Tri-mountain's  grassy  side. 

Here  they  roamed  from  rock  to  river, 
Mountain  peak  and  hidden  cave ; 


228  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

Here  the  light  canoe  they  paddled 
*  O'er  the  undulating  wave. 

All  have  vanished  ;  —  lovers,  maidens, 

Meet  not  on  these  hills  to-day, 

But  unnumbered  voices  whisper, 

"  Gone  away,  —  gone  away !  " 

"  Gone  away  !  "     Yes,  where  the  waters 

Of  the  Mississippi  roll, 
And  Niagara's  ceaseless  thunders 

With  their  might  subdue  the  s§ul, 
Now  the  noble  Indian  standeth 

Gazing  at  the  eagle's  flight, 
Conscious  that  the  great  good  Spirit 

Will  accomplish  all  things  right. 
Though  like  forest-leaves  they  're  passing, 

They  who  once  held  boundless  sway, 
And  of  them  't  will  soon  be  written, 

"  Gone  away,  —  gone  away  !  " 

As  they  stand  upon  the  mountain, 

And  behold  the  white  man  press 
Onward,  onward,  never  ceasing, 

Mighty  in  his  earnestness  ; 
As  they  view  his  temples  rising, 

And  his  white  sails  dot  the  seas, 
And  his  myriad  thousands  gathering, 

Hewing  down  the  forest  trees  ; 
Thus  they  muse  :  "  Let  them  press  onward, 

Not  far  distant  is  the  day 
When  of  them  a  voice  shall  whisper, 

'  Gone  away",  —  gone  away ! ' ' 


LINES   TO   MY  WIFE. 

THOU  art  ever  standing  near  me, 
In  wakeful  hours  and  dreams  ; 

Like  an  angel-one,  attendant 
On  life  and  all  its  themes  ; 


TO    MY   WIFE.  229 

• 
And  though  I  wander  from  thee, 

In  lands  afar  away, 
I  dream  of  thee  at  night,  and  wake 
To  think  of  thee  by  day. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  twilight, 

Like  a  spirit  kind  and  true, 
Comes  with  its  gentle  influence, 

It  whispereth  of  you. 
For  I  know  that  thou  art  present, 

With  love  that  seems  to  be 
A  band  to  bind  me  willingly 

To  heaven  and  to  thee. 

At  noon-day,  when  the  tumult  and 

The  din  of  life  is  heard, 
"When  in  life's  battle  each  heart  is 

With  various  passions  stirred, 
I  turn  me  from  the  blazonry, 

The  fickleness  of  life, 
And  think  of  thee  in  earnest  thought, 

My  dearest  one  —  my  wife  ! 

When  the  daylight  hath  departed, 

And  shadows  of  the  night 
Bring  forth  the  stars,  as  beacons  fair 

For  angels  in  their  flight, 
I  think  of  thee  as  ever  mine, 

Of  thee  as  ever  best, 
And  turn  my  heart  unto  thine  own, 

To  seek  its  wonted  rest. 

Thus  ever  thou  art  round  my  path, 

And  doubly  dear  thou  art 
When,  with  my  lips  pressed  to  thine  own, 

I  feel  thy  beating  heart. 
And  through  the  many  joys  and  griefs, 

The  lights  and  shades  of  life, 
It  will  be  joy  to  call  thee  by 

The  holy  name  of  "  wife !  " 
20 


230  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

• 
I  love  thee  for  thy  gentleness, 

I  love  thee  for  thy  truth  ; 
I  love  thee  for  thy  joyousness, 

Thy  buoyancy  of  youth 
I  love  thee  for  thy  soul  that  soars 

Above  earth's  sordid  pelf; 
And  last,  not  least,  above  these  all, 

I  love  thee  for  thyself. 

Now  come  to  me,  my  dearest, 

Place  thy  hand  in  mine  own  ; 
Look  in  mine  eyes,  and  see  how  deep 

My  love  for  thee  hath  grown  ; 
And  I  will  press  thee  to  my  heart, 

Will  call  thee  "  my  dear  wife," 
And  own  that  thou  art  all  my  joy 

And  happiness  of  life. 


CHEER   UP. 

CHEER  up,  cheer  up,  my  own  fair  one ! 

Let  gladness  take  the  place  of  sorrow ; 
Clouds  shall  not  longer  hide  the  sun, — 

There  is,  there  is  a  brighter  morrow  ! 

'T  is  coming  fast.     I  see  its  dawn. 

See !  look  you,  how  it  gilds  the  mountain  ! 
We  soon  shall  mark  its  happy  morn, 

Sending  its  light  o'er  stream  and  fountain. 

My  bird  sings  with  a  clearer  note ; 

He  seems  to  know  our  hopes  are  brighter, 
And  almost  tires  his  little  throat 

To  let  us  know  his  heart  beats  lighter. 

I  wonder  if  he  knows  how  dark 

The  clouds  were  when  they  gathered  o'er  us ! 


TRUST  THOU   IN    GOD.  231 

No  matter, —  gayly  as  a  lark 
He  sings  that  bright  paths  are  before  us. 

So  cheer  thee  up,  my  brightest,  best ! 

For  clear  's  the  sky,  and  fair  's  the  weather. 
Since  hand  in  hand  we  've  past  the  test, 

Hence  heart  in  heart  we  '11  love  together. 


TRUST    THOU    IN    GOD 

TRUST  thou  in  God !  he  '11  guide  thee 

When  arms  of  flesh  shall  fail ; 
With  every  good  provide  thee, 
And  make  his  grace  prevail. 
Where  danger  most  is  found, 
There  he  his  power  discloseth  ; 
And  'neath  his  arm, 
Free  from  all  harm, 
The  trusting  soul  reposeth. 

Trust  thou  in  God,  though  sorrow 

Thine  earthly  hopes  destroy  ; 
To  him  belongs  the  morrow, 
And  he  will  send  thee  joy. 
When  sorrows  gather  near, 

Then  he  '11  delight  to  bless  thee ! 
When  all  is  joy, 
Without  alloy, 
Thine  earthly  friends  caress  thee. 

Trust  thou  in  God !  he  reigneth 

The  Lord  of  lords  on  high  ; 
His  justice  he  maintaineth 

In  his  unclouded  sky. 

To  triumph  Wrong  may  seem, 


232  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

The  day,  yet  justice  winncth, 
And  from  the  earth 
Shall  songs  of  niirth 

Rise,  when  its  sway  beginneth. 

"When  friends  grow  faint  and  weary, 

When  thorns  are  on  thy  way, 
When  life  to  thee  is  dreary, 
When  clouded  is  thy  day, 
Then  put  thy  trust  in  God, 
Hope  on,  and  hoping  ever  ; 
Give  him  thy  heart, 
Nor  seek  to  part 
The  love  which  none  can  sever 


THE  MINISTRATION   OF   SORROW, 

THERE  's  sorrow  in  thy  heart  to-day, 

There  's  sadness  on  thy  brow  ; 
For  she,  the  loved,  hath  passed  away, 

And  thou  art  mourning  now. 
The  eye  that  once  did  sparkle  bright, 

The  hand  that  pressed  thine  own. 
No  more  shall  gladden  on  thy  sight, — 

Thy  cherished  one  hath  flown. 

And  thou  didst  love  her  -well,  't  is  true  ; 

Now  thou  canst  love  her  more, 
Since  she  hath  left  this  world,  and  you, 

On  angel  wings'  to  soar 
Above  the  world,  its  ceaseless  strilr, 

Its  turmoil  and  its  care, 
To  enter  on  eternal  life, 

And  reign  in  glory  there. 

O,  let  this  thought  now  cheer  thy  soul, 
And  bid  thy  tears  depart  ;     ' 


THE   MINISTRATION    OF   SORROW.  233 

A  few  more  days  their  course  shall  roll, 

Thou  'It  meet,  no  more  to  part. 
No  more  upon  thine  ear  shall  fall, 

The  saddening  word  "  farewell  •" 
No  more  a  parting  hour,  but  all 

In  perfect  union  dwell. 

This  world  is  not  the  home  of  man  ; 

Death  palsies  with  its  gloom, 
Marks  out  his  life-course  but  a  span, 

And  points  him  to  the  tomb  ; 
But,  thanks  to  Heaven,  't  is  but  the  gate 

By  which  we  enter  bliss  ; 
Since  such  ajife  our  spirits  wait, 

0,  cheer  thy  soul  in  this, — 

And  let  the  sorrow  that  doth  press 

Thy  spirit  down  to-day 
So  minister  that  it  may  bless 

Thee  on  thy  pilgrim  way  ; 
And  as  thy  friends  shall,  one  by  one, 

Leave  earth  above  to  dwell, 
Say  thou  to  God,  "  Thy  will  be  done, 

Thou  doest  all  things  well. ' ' 

20* 


GIVING    PUBLICITY    TO    BUSINESS. 

FROM  the  earliest  ages  of  society  some  means  have  been 
resorted  to  whereby  to  give  publicity  to  business  •which  would 
otherwise  remain  in  comparative  privacy.  The  earliest  of 
modes  adopted  was  the  crying  of  names  in  the  streets  ;  and 
before  the  invention  of  printing  men  were  employed  to  trav 
erse  the  most  frequented  thoroughfares,  to  stand  in  the  mar 
ket-places  and  other  spots  of  resort,  and,  with  loud  voices, 
proclaim  their  message  to  the  people.  This  mode  is  not  alto 
gether  out  of  use  at  the  present  time ;  yet  it  is  not  generally 
considered  a  desirable  one,  inasmuch  as  it  does  not  accom 
plish  its  purpose  so  readily  or  completely  as  any  one  of  the 
numerous  other  methods  resorted  to. 

Since  the  invention  of  printing,  handbills,  posters,  and 
newspapers,  have  been  the  principal  channels  of  communica 
tion  between  the  inside  of  the  dealer's  shop  and  the  eye  of  the 
purchaser,  and  from  that  to  the  inside  of  his  purse.  So 
advantageous  have  these  modes'  been  found,  that  it  is  a  rare 
thing  to  find  a  single  individual  who  does  not,  either  on  a 
large  or  small  scale,  rein  the  press  into  the  path  he  travels, 
and  make  its  labor  conducive  to  the  profits  of  his  own. 

England  and  France  have  taken  the  lead  in  this  mode  of 
giving  publicity  to  business ;  but  the  United  States,  with  its 
unwillingness  to  be  beat  in  any  way,  on  any  terms,  has  made 
such  rapid  strides  of  late  in  this  enterprise,  that  the  English 
lion  will  be  left  in  the  rear,  and  the  French  eagle  far  in  the 
background. 


GIVING    PUBLICITY    TO    BUSINESS.  235 

In  London  many  curious  devices  have  been  used  or  proposed. 
Of  these  was  that  of  a  man  who  wished  to  prepare  a  sort  of 
bomb-shell,  to  be  filled  with  cards  or  bills,  which,  on  reaching 
a  certain  elevation  above  the  city,  would  explode,  and  thus 
scatter  these  carrier  doves  of  information  in  all  conceivable 
directions.  In  that  city,  butchers,  bakers,  and  fishmongers, 
receive  quite  an  income  from  persons  who  wish  their  cards 
attached  to  the  various  cormnodities  in  which  they  deal. 
Thus,  a  person  receiving  a  fish,  a  loaf,  or  a  piece  of  meat, 
finds  the  advertisement  of  a  dealer  in  silks  and  satins  attached 
to  the  tail  of  the  fish :  that  of  an  auction  sale  of  domestic 
flannels  wrapped  around  the  loaf;  and  perhaps  flattering 
notices  of  a  compound  for  the  extermination  of  rats  around 
the  meat. 

In  the  evening,  transparencies  are  carried  about  the  streets, 
suspended  across  the  public  ways,  or  hung  upon  the  walls. 

In  this  country,  no  person  has  taken  the  lead  of  a  famous 
doctor  in  the  way  of  advertising.  Nearly  every  paper  in  the 
Union  was  one-fourth  filled  with  ably-written  articles  in  praise 
of  his  compound.  In  fact,  he  published  papers  of  his  own, 
the  articles  in  which  were  characterized  by  the  "one  idea 
principle,"  and  that  one  idea  was  contained  in  a  bottle  of  Dr. 

's  save  all  and  cure  all,  "none  true  but  the  genuine," 

"warranted  not  to  burst  the  bottles  or  become  sour."  In 
addition  to  these,  he  issued  an  almanac  —  millions  of  them  — 
bearing  glad  tidings  to  the  sick  and  credulous,  and  sad  tidings 
to  the  "  regulars  "  in  the  medical  fraternity.  These  alma 
nacs  were  distributed  everyAvhere.  They  came  down  on  the 
American  people  like  rain-drops.  The  result  was,  as  we  all 
know,  the  doctor  flourished  in  a  fortune  equal  to  his  fame, 
and  disposed  of  his  interest  in  the  business,  a  few  years 
since,  for  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

The  amount  of  capital  invested  in  advertising  is  very  great, 
some  firms  expending  thousands  of  dollars  monthly  in  this 


236  TOWN  ;.ATD    COUNTRY. 

mode  of  making  known  their  business.  It  has  been  truly 
said  that  a  card  in  a  newspaper,  that  costs  but  a  few  dollars, 
is  of  far  more  value  than  costly  signs  over  one's  door.  The 
former  thousands  behold,  and  are  directed  to  your  place  of 
business ;  the  latter  very  few  notice  who  do  not  know  the 
fact  it  makes  known  before  they  see  it. 

Attracted  by  the  good  fortune  of  those  who  have  advertised, 
nearly  every  one  has  adopted  the  means  that  led  to  it,  and  the 
advertising  system  has  become  universal. 

We  have  been  seated  in  a  car,  waiting  impatiently  for  the 
sound  of  the  "last  bell,"  when  a  person  in  a  brown  linen 
coat  entered  with  an  armful  of  books,  and  gave  to  each  pas 
senger  a  copy,  without  a  hint  about  pay.  Thanking  him  for 
the  gift,  and  astonished  at  his  generosity,  we  proceeded  to 
open  it,  when  "Wonderful  cures,"  "Consumption,"  "  Scrof 
ula,"  "Indigestion,"  and  "Fits,"  greeted  our  eyes  on  every 
page.  Illustrated,  too !  Here  was  represented  a  man  appar 
ently  dying,  and  near  by  a  figure  that  would  appear  to  be  a 
woman  were  it  not  for  two  monstrous  wings  on  its  back, 
throwing  obstacles  in  the  way  of  death  in  the  shape  of  a  two- 
quart  bottle  of  sarsaparilla  syrup.  Presumptive  man  in  a 
brown  linen  coat,  to  suppose  that  we,  just  on  the  eve  of  a 
pleasure  excursion,  are  troubled  with  such  complaints,  and 
stand  in  need  of  such  a  remedy  ! 

You  buy  a  newspaper,  go  home,  seat  yourself,  and,  in  the 
anticipation  of  a  glorious  intellectual  feast,  open  its  damp  pages, 
when,  lo  and  behold  !  a  huge  show-bill  falls  from  its  embrace, 
and  you  are  informed  of  the  consoling  truth  that  you  can 
have  all  your  teeth  drawn  for  a  trifle,  and  a  new  set  inserted 
at  a  low  price,  by  a  distinguished  dentist  from  London.  The 
bill  is  indignantly  thrown  aside,  and  you  commence  reading 
ah  article  under  the  caption  of  "  An  interesting  incident," 
which,  when  half  finished,  you  find  to  refer  to  a  young  lady 
whose  complexion  was  made  beautiful  by  the  free  use  of 


GIVING   PUBLICITY   TO   BUSINESS.  237 

"  Chaulks  Poudres,"  a  box  of  which  can  be  obtained  at  96 
Azure-street,  for  25  cts.  After  reading  another  column, 
headed  •'  An  act  of  mercy,"  you  find  at  its  close  a  most 
pathetic  appeal  to  your  tender  sensibilities  in  an  affectionate 
request  for  you  to  call  on  Dr.  Digg  and  have  your  corns 
extracted  Avithout  pain.  Despairing  of  finding  the  "intellect 
ual  treat,"  you  lay  the  paper  aside,  and  resolve  upon  taking 
a  walk. 

Before  you  are  monstrous  show-bills,  emblazoned  with  large 
letters  and  innumerable  exclamation-points.  Above  you, 
flaunting  flags  with  flaming  notices.  Beneath  you,  marble 
slabs  inscribed  with  the  names  of  traders  and  their  goods. 
Around  you,  boys  with  their  arms  full  of  printed  notices,  and 
men  encased  with  boards  on  which  are  mammoth  posters.  Sick 
of  seeing  these,  you  close  your  eyes;  but  you  don't  escape  so 
easily :  —  a  dinner-bell  is  rung  in  your  ears,  and  a  voice,  if  not 
like  mighty  thunder,  at  least  like  an  embryo  earthquake,  pro 
claims  an  auction  sale,  a  child  lost,  or  news  for  the  afflicted. 

And  thus  it  is,  the  world  is  one  great  Babel.  All  is  busi 
ness,  business,  and  we  ask  for  "  some  vast  wilderness  "  in 
which  to  lie  down  ancLget  cool,  and  keep  quiet. 

In  Paris,  the  people  long  since  adopted  a  plan  which  has 
not  yet  come  in  vogue  among  us.  A  long  story  is  written ; 
in  the  course  of  this  story,  a  dozen  or  more  establishments 
receive  the  author's  laudations,  which  are  so  ingeniously 
interwoven,  that  the  reader  is  scarcely  aware  of  the  design. 
For  instance,  Marnetta  is  going  to  an  evening  party.  In  the 
morning  she  goes  out,  and  is  met  by  a  sprig  of  gentility,  a 
young  man  of  fashion,  who  cannot  allow  her  to  omit  entering 
the-unrivalled  store  of  Messrs.  Veuns,  where  the  most  beau 
tiful  silks,  etc.,  are  to  be  seen  and  purchased.  Leaving 
this,  she  next  encounters  a  young  lady  acquaintance  of  pru 
dent  and  economical  habits,  by  whom  "our  heroine"  is  led 
into  a  store  where  beauty  and  elegance  are  combined  with 


238  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

durability  and  a  low  price.  She  wishes  perfumery ;  so  she 
hastens  to  Viot  &  Sons ;  for  none  make  so  good  as  they,  and 
the  fragrance  of  their  store  has  been  wafted  on  the  winds  of 
all  nations. 

Thus  is  the  story  led  on  from  one  step  to  another,  -with  its 
interest  not  in  the  least  abated,  to  the  end.  This  embraces 
"puffery,"  as  it  is  called.  And,  while  on  this  subject,  we 
may  as  well  bring  up  the  following  specimen  of  this  species 
of  advertising.  It  was  written  by  Peter  Seguin,  on  the  occa 
sion  of  the  first  appearance  in  Dublin  of  the  celebrated  Mrs. 
Siddons.  It  caused  much  merriment  at  the  time  among 
some,  while  in  others,  who  could  not  relish  a  joke,  it  excited 
anger. 

' '  The  house  was  crowded  with  hundreds  more  than  it  could 
hold,  with  thousands  of  admiring  spectators  that  went  away 
without  a  sight.  This  extraordinary  phenomenon  of  tragic 
excellence  !  this  star  of  Melpomene  !  this  comet  of  the  stage  ! 
this  sun  of  the  firmament  of  the  Muses  !  this  moon  of  blank 
verse  !  this  queen  arch-princess  of  tears  !  this  Donnellan  of 
the  poisoned  bowl !  this  empress  of  the  pistol  and  dagger  !  this 
child  of  Shakspeare  !  this  world  of  weeping  clouds  !  this  Juno 
of  commanding  aspects  !  this  Terpsicoire  of  the  curtains  and 
scenes  !  this  Proserpine  of  fire  and  earthquake  !  this  Katter- 
felto  of  wonders  !  exceeded  expectation,  went  beyond  belief, 
and  soared  above  all  the  natural  powers  of  description  !  She 
was  nature  itself !  she  was  the  most  exquisite  work  of  art ! 
She  was  the  very  daisy,  primrose,  tuberose,  sweet-brier, 
furze-blossom,  gillifiower,  wallflower,  cauliflower,  aurica  and 
rosemary  !  In  short,  she  was  the  bouquet  of  Parnassus  ! 
Where  expectation  was  raised  so  high,  it  was  thought  she 
would  be  injured  by  her  appearance  ;  but  it  was  the  audience 
•who  were  injured ;  several  fainted  before  the  curtain  drew 
up  !  but  when  she  came  to  the  scene  of  parting  with  her  wed 
ding-ring,  ah  !  what  a  sight  was  there  !  The  fiddlers  in  the 


GIVING   PUBLICITY  TO   BUSINESS.  239 

orchestra,  '  albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood !  '  blubbered 
like  hungry  children  crying  for  their  bread  and  butter  ;  and 
when  the  bell  rang  for  music  between  the  acts,  the  tears  ran 
from  the  bassoon  player's  eyes  in  such  plentiful  showers,  that 
they  choked  the  finger-stops,  and,  making  a  spout  of  the  in 
strument,  poured  in  such  torrents  on  the  first  fiddler's  book, 
that,  not  seeing  the  overture  was  in  two  sharps,  the  leader 
of  the  band  actually  played  in  one  flat.  But  the  sobs  and 
sighs  of  the  groaning  audience,  and  the  noise  of  corks  drawn 
from  the  smelling-bottles,  prevented  the  mistakes  between 
the  flats  and  sharps  being  discovered.  One  hundred  and 
nine  ladies  fainted !  forty-six  went  into  fits  !  and  ninety-five 
had  strong  hysterics  !  The  world  will  hardly  credit  the 
truth,  when  they  are  told  that  fourteen  children,  five  women, 
one  hundred  tailors,  and  six  common-council  men,  were  actu 
ally  drowned  in  the  inundation  of  tears  that  flowed  from  the 
galleries,  the  slips  and  the  boxes,  to  increase  the  briny  pond 
in  the  pit ;  the  water  was  three  feet  deep,  and  the  people 
that  were  obliged  to  stand  upon  the  benches  were  in  that 
position  up  to  their  ancles  in  tears." 

'  There  is  nothing  in  the  present  style  of  criticism  that  can 
exceed  the  above.  The  author  actually  reached  the  climax, 
and  all  attempts  to  overtop  him  would  be  useless. 

Of  advertisements  there  have  been  many  worthy  of  preser 
vation  :  some  on  account  of  the  ingenuity  displayed  in  their 
composition ;  some  in  their  wit ;  some  for  their  domesticative- 
ness, —  matrimonial  offers,  for  example, —  and  others  for  the 
conceitedness  exposed  in  them,  the  ignorance  of  the  writers, 
or  the  whimsicality  of  the  matter  advertised.  In  1804  there 
was  advertised  in  an  English  paper,  as  for  sale,  "The  walk 
of  a  deceased  blind  beggar  (in  a  charitable  neighbor 
hood},  with  his  dog  and  staff." 


240  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

In  the  St.  James  Chronicle  of  1772  was  the  following : 

'  '•  Wanted,  fifteen  hundred  or  two  thousand  pounds,  by  a 
person  not  worth  a  groat ;  Avho,  having  neither  houses,  lands, 
annuities,  or  public  funds,  can  offer  no  other  security  than 
that  of  a  simple  bond,  bearing  simple  interest,  and  engaging 
the  repayment  of  the  sum  borrowed  in  five,  six,  or  seven 
years,  as  may  be  agreed  on  by  the  parties,"  &c. 

We  do  not  know  whether  the  advertiser  obtained  his 
pounds  or  not,  but  such  an  advertisement,  now-a-days,  would 
draw  forth  a  laugh  much  sooner  than  the  money ;  or.  if 
"pounds"  came,  they  would,  most  probably,  fall  upon  the 
recipient's  shoulders,  instead  of  into  his  pocket. 

The  Chinese  are  not  behind  the  age  in  this  business.  The 
following  is  an  instance  in  proof: 

"  ACHEU  TEA  CHINCOEU,  sculptor,  respectfully  acquaints 
masters  of  ships  trading  from  Canton  to  India  that  they  may 
be  furnished  with  figure-heads,  any  size,  according  to  order, 
at  one-fourth  of  the  price  charged  in  Europe.  He  also  rec 
ommends,  for  private  venture,  the  following  idols,  brass, 
gold  and  silver :  The  hawk  of  Vishnoo,  which  has  reliefs  of 
his  incarnation  in  a  fish,  boar,  lion  and  bull,  as  worshipped 
by  the  pious  followers  of  Zoroaster ;  two  silver  marmosets, 
with  gold  ear-rings;  an  aprimanes  for  Persian  worship;  a 
ram,  an  alligator,  a  crab,  a  laughing  hyena,  with  a  variety 
of  household  idols,  on  a  small  scale,  calculated  for  family 
worship.  Eighteen  months  credit  will  be  given,  or  a  discount 
of  fifteen  per  cent,  for  prompt  payment,  on  the  sum  affixed 
to  each  article.  Direct,  Canton-street,  Canton,  under  the 
marble  Rhinoceros  and  gilt  Hydra." 

We  subjoin  another,  in  which  self-exaltation  is  pretty  well 
carried  out. 

"  At  the  shop  Tae-shing  (prosperous  in  the  extreme)  — 


GIVING   PUBLICITY   TO   BUSINESS.  241 

t 
very  good  ink ;  fine  !  fine  !    Ancient  shop,  great-grandfather, 

grandfather,  father  and  self,  make  this  ink ;  fine  and  hard, 
very  hard ;  picked  with  care,  selected  with  attention.  I  sell 
very  good  ink ;  prime  cost  is  very  great.  This  ink  is  heavy; 
so  is  gold.  The  eye  of  the  dragon  glitters  and  dazzles  ;  so 
does  this  ink.  No  one  makes  like  it.  Others  who  make  . 
ink  make  it  for  the  sake  of  accumulating  base  coin,  cheat, 
while  I  make  it  only  for  a  name.  Plenty  of  A-kwan-tsaes 
(gentlemen)  know  my  ink  —  my  family  never  cheated  — 
they  have  always  borne  a  good  name.  I  make  ink  for  the 
'  Son  of  Heaven,'  and  all  the  mandarins  in  the  empire.  As 
the  roar  of  the  tiger  extends  to  every  place,  so  does  the  fame 
of  the  '  dragon's  jewel '  (the  ink).  Come,  all  A-kwan-tsaes, 
come  to  my  shop  and  see  the  sign  Tae-shing  at  the  side  of 
the  door.  It  is  Seou-shwuy-street  (Small  Water-street), 
outside  the  south  gate." 
21 


THE   MISSION   OF   KINDNESS. 


Go  to  the  sick  man's  chamber  ;  low  and  soft 
Falls  on  the  listening  ear  a  sweet-toned  voice  ; 
A  hand  as  gentle  as  the  summer  breeze, 
Ever  inclined  to  offices  of  good, 
Smooths  o'er  the  sick  man's  pillow,  and  then  turns 
To  trifli  the  midnight  lamp,  moisten  the  lips, 
And,  passing  over,  soothe  the  fevered  brow. 
Thus  charity  finds  place  in  woman's  heart ; 
And  woman  kind,  and  beautiful,  and  good, 
Doth  thus  administer  to  every  want, 
Nor  wearies  in  her  task,  but  labors  on, 
And  finds  her  joy  in  that  which  she  imparts. 

Go  to  the  prisoner's  cell ;  to-morrow's  light 
Shall  be  the  last  on  earth  he  e'er  shall  see. 
He  mutters  hate  'gainst  all,  and  threatens  ill 
To  every  semblance  of  the  human  form. 
Deep  in  his  soul  remorse,  despair  and  hate, 
Dwell  unillumined  by  one  ray  of  light, 
And  sway  his  spirit  as  the  waves  are  swayed 
By  wind  and  storm.     He  may  have  cause  to  hold 
His  fellow-men  as  foes ;  for,  at  the  first 
Of  his  departure  from  an  upright  course, 
They  scorned  and  shunned  and  cursed  him. 
They  sinned  thus,  and  he,  in  spite  for  them, 
Kept  on  his  sullen  way  from  wrong  to  wrong. 
Which  is  the  greatest  sinner  ?     He  shall  say 
Who  of  the  hearts  of  men  alone  is  judge. 

Now,  in  his  cell  condemned,  he  waits  the  hour, 
The  last  sad  hour  of  mortal  life  to  him. 


THE  MISSION    OF  KINDNESS.  243 

His  oaths  and  blasphemies  he  sudden  stays  ! 

He  thinks  he  hears  upon  his  prison  door 

A  gentle  tap.     0,  to  his  hardened  heart 

That  gentle  sound  a  sweet  remembrance  brings 

Of  better  days  —  two-score  of  years  gone  by, 

Days  when  his  mother,  rapping  softly  thus, 

Called  him  to  morning  prayer.     Again  't  is  heard. 

Is  it  a  dream  ?    Asleep !     He  cannot  sleep 

With  chains  around  and  shameful  death  before  him  ! 

Is  it  the  false  allurement  of  some  foe 

Who  would  with  such  enticement  draw  him  forth 

To  meet  destruction  ere  the  appointed  time  ? 

Softened  and  calmed,  each  angry  passion  lulled,    • 
By  a  soft  voice,  "  Come  in,"  he  trembling  calls. 
Slow  on  its  hinges  turns  the  ponderous  door, 
And  "  Friend,"  the  word  that  falls  from  stranger  lips. 
As  dew  on  flowers,  as  rain  on  parched  ground, 
So  came  the  word  unto  the  prisoner's  ear. 
He  speaks  not  —  moves  not.     0,  his  heart  is  full, 
Too  full  for  utterance  ;  and,  as  floods  of  tears 
Flow  from  his  eyes  so  all  unused  to  weep, 
He  bows  down  low,  e'en  at  the  stranger's  feet. 

He  had  not  known  what  't  was  to  have  a  friend. 
The  word  came  to  him  like  a  voice  from  heaven, 
A  voice  of  love  to  one  who  'd  heard  but  hate. 
"  Friend  !  "  Mysterious  word  to  him  who  'd  known  no  friend. 
0,  What  a  power  that  simple  word  hath  o'er  him ! 
As  now  he  holds  the  stranger's  hand  in  his, 
And  bows  his  head  upon  it,  he  doth  seem 
Gentle  and  kind,  and  docile  as  a  child. 
Repentance  comes  with  kindness,  goodness  rears 
Its  cross  on  Calvary's  height,  inspiring  hope 
Which  triumphs  over  evil  and  its  guilt. 

0,  how  much  changed  !  and  all  by  simple  words 
Spoken  in  love  and  kindness  from  the  heart. 
0 ,  love  and  kindness  !  matchless  power  have  ye 
To  mould  the  human  heart ;  where'er  ye  dwell 
There  is  no  sorrow,  but  a  living  joy. 


TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

There  is  no  man  whom  God  hath  placed  on  earth 

That  hath  not  some  humanity  within, 

And  is  not  moved  with  kindness  joined  with  love. 

The  wildest  savage,  from  whose  firelit  eye 

Flashes  the  lightning  passions  of  his  soul, 

Who  stands,  and  feeling  that  he  hath  been  wronged, 

That  he  hath  trusted  and  been  basely  used, 

And  that  to  him  revenge  were  doubly  sweet, 

Dares  all  the  world  to  combat  and  to  death, — 

Even  he  hath  dwelling  in  his  inmost  heart 

A  chord  that  quick  will  vibrate  to  kind  words. 

Go  unto  such  with  kindness,  not  with  wrath  ; 

Let  your  eye  look  love,  and  't  will  disarm  him 

Of  all  the  evil  passions  with  which  he 

Hath  mailed  his  soul  in  terrible  array. 

Think  not  to  tame  the  wild  by  brutal  force. 
As  well  attempt  to  stay  devouring  flames 
By  heaping  fagots  on  the  blazing  pile. 
Go,  do  man  good,  and  the  deep-hidden  spark 
Of  true  divinity  concealed  within 
Will  brighten  up,  and  thou  shalt  see  its  glow, 
And  feel  its  cheering  warmth.     0,  we  lose  much 
By  calling  passion's  aid  to  vanquish  wrong. 
We  should  stand  within  love's  holy  temple, 
And  with  persuasive  kindness  call  men  in, 
Rather  than,  leaving  it,  use  other  means, 
Unblest  of  God,  and  therefore  weak  and  vain, 
To  force  them  on  before  us  into  bliss. 

There  is  a  luxury  in  doing  good 
Which  none  but  by  experience  e'er  can  know. 
He  's  blest  who  doeth  good.     Sleep  comes  to  him 
On  wings  of  sweetest  peace  ;  and  angels  meet 
In  joyous  convoys  ever  round  his  couch  ; 
They  watch  and  guard,  protect  and  pray  for  him. 
All  mothers  tend  the  knee,  and  children  too 
Clasp  their  fair  hands  and  raise  their  undimmed  <  \i  s, 
As  if  to  pierce  the  shadowy  veil  that  lianas 
Between  themselves  and  God  —  then  pray  that  he 
Will  bless  with  Heaven's  best  gifts  the  friend  of  man. 


A  PLEA"  FOR  THE  FALLEN.  245 


A   PLEA   FOR  THE   FALLEN. 

PITY  her,  pity  her  !     Once  she  was  fairN, 
Once  breathed  she  sweetly  the  innocent's  prayer  ; 
Parents  stood  by  in  pride  o'er  their  daughter  ; 
Sin  had  not  tempted,  Vice  had  not  caught  her  ; 
Hoping  and  trusting,  believing  all  true, 
Nothing  but  happiness  rose  to  her  view. 
She,  as  were  spoken  words  lovers  might  tell, 
Listened,  confided,  consented,  and  fell ! 
Now  she  's  forsaken  ;  nursing  in  sorrow, 
Hate  for  the  night,  despair  for  the  morrow ! 

She  'd  have  the  world  think  she 's  happy  and  gay,  - 

A  butterfly,  roving  wherever  it  may  ; 

Sipping  delight  from  each  rose-bud  and  flower, 

Tlie  charmed  and  the  charmer  of  every  hour. 

She  will  not  betray  to  the  world  all  her  grief ; 

She  knows  it  is  false,  and  will  give.no  relief. 

She  knows  that  its  friendship  is  heartless  and  cold  ; 

That  it  loves  but  for  gain,  and  pities  for  gold  ; 

That  when  in  their  woe  the  fallen  do  cry, 

It  turns,  it  forsakes,  and  it  leaves  them  to  die  ! 

But  after  the  hour  of  the  world's  bright  show, 
When  hence  from  her  presence  flatterers  go  ; 
When  none  are  near  to  praise  or  caress  her, 
No  one  stands  by  with  fondness  to  bless  her  ; 
Alone  with  her  thoughts,  in  moments  like  this, 
She  thinks  of  her  days  of  innocent  bliss, 
And  she  weeps  !  —  yes,  she  weeps  penitent  tears 
O'er  the  shaine  of  a  life  and  the  sorrow  of  years  : 
She  turns  for  a  friend  ;  yet,  alas  !  none  is  there  ; 
She  sinks,  once  again,  in  the  deepest  despair  ! 

Blame  her  not !  0  blame  not,  ye  fathers  who  hold 
Daughters  you  value  more  dearly  than  gold  ! 
But  pity,  0,  pity  her  !  take  by  the  hand 
One  who,  though  fallen,  yet  nobly  may  stand. 


246  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

Turn  not  away  from  her  plea  and  her  cries  ; 
Pity  and  help,  and  the  fallen  may  rise  ! 
Crush  not  to  earth  the  reed  that  is  broken, 
Bind  up  her  wounds  —  let  soft  words  be  spoken  ; 
Though  she  be  low,  though  worldlings  reject  her, 
Let  not  Humanity  ever  neglect  her. 


JOY   BEYOND. 

BEYOND  the  dark,  deep  grave,  whose  lowly  portal 
Must  yet  be  passed  by  every  living  mortal, 

There  gleams  a  light ; 

'T  is  not  of  earth.     It  wavers  not ;  it  gloweth 
With  a  clear  radiance  which  no  changing  knoweth, 

Constant  and  bright. 

We  love  to  gaze  at  it ;  we  love  to  cherish 

The  cheering  thought,  that,  when  this  earth  shall  perish, 

And  naught  remain 

Of  all  these  temples, —  things  we  now  inherit, 
Each  unimprisoned,  no  more  fettered  spirit 

Shall  life  retain. 

And  ever,  through  eternity  unending, 

It  shall  unto  that  changeless  light  be  tending, 

Till  perfect  day 

Shall  be  its  great  reward  ;  and  all  of  mystery 
That  hath  made  up  its  earthly  life,  its  history, 

Be  passed  away ! 

0,  joyous  hour  !     0,  day  most  good  and  glorious  ! 
When  from  the  earth  the  ransomed  rise  victorious, 

Its  conflict  o'er ; 

When  joy  henceforth  each  grateful  soul  engages, 
Joy  unalloyed  through  never-ending  ages, 

Joy  evermore  ? 


THE    SUMMER    DAYS   ARE    COMING.  247 


THE  SUMMER  DAYS  ARE  COMING, 

THE  summer  days  are  coming, 

The  glorious  summer  hours, 
When  Nature  decks  her  gorgeous  robe 

With  sunbeams  and  with  flowers  ; 
And  gathers  all  her  choristers 

In  plumage  bright  and  gay, 
Till  every  vale  is  echoing  with 

Their  joyous  roundelay. 

No  more  shall  frosty  winter 
*  Hold  in  its  cold  embrace 

The  water  ;  but  the  river 

Shall  join  again  the  race  ; 
And  down  the  mountain's  valley, 

And  o'er  its  rocky  side, 
The  glistening  streams  shall  rush  and  leap 

In  all  their  bounding  pride. 

There  's  pleasure  in  the  winter, 

When  o'er  the  frozen  snow 
With  faithful  friend  and  noble  steed 

Right  merrily  we  go  ! 
But  give  to  me  the  summer, 

The  pleasant  summer  days, 
When  blooming  flowers  and  sparkling  streams 

Enliven  all  our  ways. 


THE  MAN    WHO   KNOWS   EVERYTHING. 

SANSECRAT  is  one  of  that  class  of  persons  who  think  they 
know  everything.  If  anything  occurs,  and  you  seek  to 
inform  bjm,  he  will  interrupt  you  by  saying  that  he  knows  it 
all, —  that  he  was  on  the  spot  Avhen  the  occurrence  happened, 
or  that  he  had  met  a  man  who  was  an  eye-witness.  , 

Such  a  person,  though  he  be  the  possessor  of  much  assur 
ance,  is  sadly  deficient  in  manners ;  and  no  doubt  the  super- 
abundancy  of  the  former  is  caused  by  the  great  lack  of  the 
latter. 

Such  men  as  he  will  thrive;  there  is  no  mistake  about  it. 
This  has  been  called  an  age  of  invention  and  of  humbug. 
Nothing  is  so  popular,  or  so  much  sought  after,  as  that  which 
cannot  be  explained,  and  around  which  a  mysterious  shroud 
is  closely  woven. 

My  friend  Arcanus  came  sweating  and  puffing  into  my 
room.  I  had  just  finished  my  dinner,  and  was  seated  lei 
surely  looking  over  a  few  pages  of  manuscript,  when  he 
entered. 

"  News  !  "  said  he  ;  and  before  I  could  hand  him  a  chair 
he  had  told  me  all  about  the  last  battle,  and  his  tongue  flew 
about  with  so  much  rapidity,  that  a  conflagration  might  have 
been  produced  by  such  excessive  friction,  had  not  a  rap  at 
the  door  put  a  clog  under  the  wheels  of  his  talkative  loco 
motive,  and  stayed  its  progress,  which  luckily  gave  me  an 
opportunity  to  take  his  hat  and  request  him  to  be  seated. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  who  but  Sansccrat  stood  be 
fore  me. 


THE   MAN    WHO    KNOWS   EVERYTHING.  249 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?  "  was  the  first  interrogatory 
of  my  friend  Arcanus,  in  reply  to  which  Sansecrat  said  that 
he  knew  it  all  half  an  hour  previous, —  Avas  at  the  railroad 
station  when  the  express  arrived,  and  was  the  first  man  to 
open  the  Southern  papers. 

In  vain  Arcanus  told  him  that  the  information  came  by  a 
private  letter.  He  averred,  point  blank,  that  it  was  no  such 
thing ;  that  he  had  the  papers  in  his  pocket ;  and  was  about  to 
exhibit  them  as  proof  of  what  he  had  said,  when  he  suddenly 
recollected  that  he  had  sold  them  to  an  editor  for  one-and- 
sixpence. 

Notwithstanding  the  proverb  of  "Man,  know  thyself," 
Sansecrat  seems  to  know  everything  but  himself.  Thousands 
of  times  has  it  been  said  that  man  can  see  innumerable  faults 
and  foibles  in  his  neighbors,  but  none  in  himself.  Very 
true ;  and  man  can  see  his  own  character,  just  as  he  can  see 
his  own  face  in  a  mirror.  His  own  associates  mirror  forth 
his  own  character ;  and  the  faults,  be  they  great  or  small, 
that  he  sees  in  them,  are  but  the  true  reflection  of  his  own 
errors.  Yet,  blind  to  this,  and  fondly  imagining  that  he  is 
the  very  "pink  of  excellence,"  he  flatters  his  own  vain 
feeling  with  the  cherished  idea  that,  while  others  have 
faults,  he  has  none,  and  so  slumbers  on  in  the  sweet  repose 
of  ignorance. 

Sansecrat  imagines  that  he  knows  everything;  that  to 
teach  him  would  be  like  "  carrying  coals  to  Newcastle," 
or  sending  ship-loads  of  ice  to  Greenland,  or  furnaces  to 
the  coast  of  Africa ;  yet  he  is  as  ignorant  as  the  greatest 
dunce,  who,  parrot-like,  repeats  that  he  has  heard,  without 
having  the  least  understanding  of  what  he  says. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that 
Sansecrat  will  prosper  in  the  world ;  for,  though  destitute 
of  those  qualifications  which  render  their  possessor  worthy 
of  success,  he  has  an  abundance  of  brazen- facedness,  with 


250  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

which  he  will  work  himself  into  the  good  opinion  of  not 
a  few,  who  look  more  closely  upon  exterior  appearance 
than  they  do  upon  inward  worth,  and  judge  their  fellow- 
men  more  by  the  good  quality  of  their  cloth  than  by  the 
good  quality  of  their  hearts,  and  set  more  value  on  a  shining 
hat  and  an  unpatched  boot  than  they  do  on  a  brilliant  intel 
lect  and  a  noble  soul. 


PRIDE    AND    POVERTY. 

I  CANNOT  brook  the  proud.     I  cannot  love 
The  selfish  man  ;  he  seems  to  have  no  heart ; 
And  why  he  lives  and  moves  upon  this  earth 
Which  God  has  made  so  fair,  I  cannot  tell. 
He  has  no  soul  but  that  within  his  purse, 
And  all  his  hopes  are  centred  on  its  fate  ; 
That  lost,  and  all  is  lost. 

I  knew  a  man 

Who  had  abundant  riches.     He  was  proud,  — 
Too  oft  the  effect  of  riches  when  abused,  — 
His  step  was  haughty,  and  his  eye  glanced  at 
The  honest  poor  as  base  intruders  on 
The  earth  he  trod  and  fondly  called  his  own  ; 
Unwelcome  guests  at  Nature's  banqueting. 

Years  passed  away,  —  that  youth  became  a  man ; 
His  beetled  brow,  his  sullen  countenance, 
His  eye  that  looked  a  fiery  command, 
Betrayed  that  his  ambition  was  to  rule. 
He  smiled  not,  save  in  scorn  on  humble  men, 
Whom  he  would  have  bow  down  and  worship  him. 
Thus  with  his  strength  his  pride  did  grow,  until 
He  did  become  aristocrat  indeed. 
The  humble  beggar,  whose  loose  rags  scarce  gave 
Protection  to  him  from  the  cold  north  wind, 
He  scarce  would  look  upon,  and  vainly  said, 
As  in  his  hand  he  held  the  ready  coin, 
"  No  mortal  need  be  poor,  —  't  is  his  own  fault 
If  such  he  be  ;  —  if  he  court  poverty, 
Let  all  its  miseries  be  his  to  bear." 


252  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

'T  is  many  years  since  he  the  proud  spake  thus, 
And  men  and  things  have  greatly  changed  since  then. 

No  more  in  wealth  he  rolls,  —  men's  fortunes  change. 

I  met  a  lonely  hearse,  slowly  it  passed 
Toward  the  church-yard.     'T  was  unattended 
Save  by  one  old  man,  and  he  the  sexton. 
With  spade  beneath  his  arm  he  trudged  along, 
Whistling  a  homely  tune,  and  stopping  not. 
He  seemed  to  be  in  haste,  for  now  and  then 
He  'd  urge  to  quicker  pace  his  walking  beast, 
With  the  rough  handle  of  his  rusty  spade. 
Him  I  approached,  and  eagerly  inquired 
Whose  body  thus  was  borne  so  rudely  to 
Its  final  resting-place,  the  deep,  dark  grave. 
"  His  name  M-as  Albro,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 
"  Too  proud  to  beg,  we  found  him  starved  to  death, 
In  a  lone  garret,  which  the  rats  and  mice 
Seemed  greatly  loth  to  have  him  occupy. 
An'  I,  poor  Billy  Matterson,  whom  once 
He  deemed  too  poor  and  low  to  look  upon, 
Am  come  to  bury  him." 

The  sexton  smiled,  — 

Then  raised  his  rusty  spade,  cheered  up  his  nag, 
Whistled  as  he  was  wont,  and  jogged  along. 
Oft  I  have  seen  the  poor  man  raise  his  hand 
To  wipe  the  eye  when  good  men  meet  the  grave,  — 
But  Billy  Matterson,  he  turned  and  smiled. 

The  truth  flashed  in  an  instant  on  my  mind, 
Though  sad,  yet  deep,  unchanging  truth  to  me. 
'T  was  he,  thus  borne,  who,  in  his  younger  days, 
Blest  with  abundance,  used  it  not  aright. 
He,  who  blamed  the  poor  because  they  were  such  ; 
Behold  his  end  !  —  too  proud  to  bey,  he  died. 

A  sad  example,  teaching  all  to  shun 
The  rock  on  which  he  shipwrecked,  —  warning  take, 
That  they  too  fall  not  as  he  rashly  fell. 


WORDS   THAT   TOUCH   THE   INNER  HEART.  253 


WORDS   THAT  TOUCH   THE   INNER  HEART. 

WORDS,  words  !   0  give  me  these, 

"Words  befitting  what  I  feel, 
That  I  may  on  every  breeze 

"Waft  to  those  whose  riven  steel 
Fetters  souls  and  shackles  hands 

Born  to  be  as  free  as  air, 
Yet  crushed  and  .cramped  by  Slavery's 

Words  that  have  an  influence  there. 

Words,  words  !  give  me  to  write 

Such  as  touch  the  inner  heart ; 
Not  mere  flitting  forms  of  light, 

That  please  the  ear  and  then  depart ; 
But  burning  words,  that  reach  the  soul, 

That  bring  the  shreds  of  error  out, 
That  with  resistless  power  do  roll, 

And  put  the  hosts  of  Wrong  to  rout. 

Let  others  tune  their  lyres,  and  sing 

Illusive  dreams  of  fancied  joy  ; 
But,  my  own  harp,  —  its  every  string 

Shall  find  in  Truth  enough  employ. 
It  shall  not  breathe  of  Freedom  here, 

While  millions  clank  the  galling  chain  ; 
Or  e'en  one  slave  doth  bow  in  fear, 

Within  our  country's  broad  domain. 

Go  where  the  slave-gang  trembling  stands, 

Herded  with  every  stable  stock,  — 
Woman  with  fetters  on  her  hands, 

And  infants  on  the  auction-block  ! 
See,  as  she  bends,  how  flow  her  tears  ! 

Hark  !  hear  her  broken,  trembling  sighs  ; 
Then  hear  the  oaths,  the  threats,  the  jeers, 

Of  men  who  lash  her  as  she  cries  ! 


22 


254  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

0,  men  !  who  have  the  power  to  weave 

In  poesy's  web  deep,  searching  thought, 
Be  truth  thy  aim  ;  henceforward  leave 

The  lyre  too  much  with  fancy  fraught ! 
Come  up,  and  let  the  words  you  write 

Be  those  which  every  chain  would  break, 
And  every  sentence  you  indite 

Be  pledged  to  Truth  for  Freedom's  sake. 


OUR    HOME. 

OCR  home  shall  be 
A  cot  on  the  mountain  side, 
Where  the  bright  waters  glide, 

Sparkling  and  free  ; 
Terrace  and  window  o'er 
Woodbine  shall  graceful  soar  ; 
Roses  shall  round  the  door 

Blossom  for  thee. 

There  shall  be  joy 
With  no  care  to  molest,  — 
Quiet,  serene  and  blest ; 

And  our  employ 
Work  each  other's  pleasure  ; 
Boundless  be  the  treasure  ; 
Without  weight  or  measure, 

Free  from  alloy. 

Our  home  shall  be 
Where  the  first  ray  of  light 
Over  the  mountain  height, 

Stream,  rock  and  tree, 
Joy  to  our  cot  shall  bring, 
While  brake  and  bower  shall  ring 
With  notes  the  birds  shall  sing, 

Loved  one,  for  thee. 


SPECULATION  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCE. 

SPECULATION  is  business  in  a  high  fever.  Its  termina 
tion  is  generally  very  decided,  whether  favorable  or  other 
wise,  and  the  effect  of  that  termination  upon  the  individual 
most  intimately  connected  with  it  in  most  cases  unhealthy. 

It  was  a  truth  long  before  the  wise  man  wrote  it,  that 
making  haste  to  be  rich  is  an  evil ;  and  it  always  will  be  a 
truth  that  the  natural,  unforced  course  of  human  events  is  the 
only  sure,  the  only  rational  one. 

The  desire  to  be  rich,  to  be  pointed  out  as  wealthy,  is  a 
very  foolish  one,  unless  it  be  coupled  with  a  desire  to  do 
good.  This  is  somewhat  paradoxical ;  for  the  gratification 
of  the  last  most  certainly  repels  that  of  the  first,  inasmuch 
as  he  who  distributes  his  gains  cannot  accumulate  to  any 
great  extent. 

Wealth  is  looked  at  from  the  wrong  stand-point.  It  is 
too  often  considered  the  end,  instead  of  the  means  to  an  end  ; 
and  there  never  was  a  greater  delusion  in  the  human  mind 
than  that  of  supposing  that  riches  confer  happiness.  In 
ninety -nine  cases  out  of  every  hundred  the  opposite  is  the 
result.  Care  often  bears  heavily  on  the  rich  man's  brow, 
and  the  insatiate  spirit  asks  again  and  again  for  more,  and  will 
not  be  silenced.  And  this  feeling  will  predominate  in  the 
human  mind  until  man  becomes  better  acquainted  with  his 
own  true  nature,  and  inclines  to  minister  to  higher  and  more 
ennobling  aspirations. 

In  one  of  the  most  populous  cities  of  the  Union  there 


256  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

resided,  a  few  years  since,  a  person  in  moderate  circum 
stances,  by  the  name  of  Robert  Short.  Bob,  as  he  was 
usually  called,  was  a  shoemaker.  With  a  steady  run  of  cus 
tom,  together  with  prudence  and  economy  combined,  he  was 
enabled  to  support  his  family  in  an  easy  and  by  no  means 
unenviable  style.  He  did  not  covet  the  favors  and  caresses 
of  the  world.  He  looked  upon  all, —  the  rich,  the  poor,  the 
prince,  the  beggar, —  alike,  as  his  brethren.  He  believed 
that  all  stood  upon  one  platform,  all  were  bound  to  the  same 
haven,  and  that  all  should  be  equally  interested  in  each 
other's  welfare.  With  this  belief,  and  with  rules  of  a  similar 
character,  guided  by  which  he  pursued  his  course  of  life,  it 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  could  boast  of  many  friends, 
and  not  strange  that  many  should  seek  his  acquaintance. 
There  is  a  desire  planted  in  the  hearts  of  honest  men  to  asso 
ciate  with  those  who,  ambitious  enough  to  sustain  a  good 
character,  are  not  so  puffed  up  \vith  pride,  or  so  elevated  in 
their  own  estimation,  as  to  despise  the  company  of  what  are 
termed  "  the  common  people."  It  was  pleasant,  of  a  winter's 
evening,  to  enter  the  humble  domicile  of  Mr.  Short,  and  while 
the  howling  storm  raged  fiercely  without,  and  the  elements 
seemed  at  war,  to  see  the  contentment  and  peace  that  pre 
vailed  within.  Bob,  seated  at  his  bench,  might  be  seen  busily 
employed,  and,  as  the  storm  increased,  would  seem  to  apply 
himself  more  diligently  to  his  task.  Six  or  perhaps  eight 
of  his  neighbors  might  also  be  seen  gathered  around,  seated 
upon  that  article  most  convenient, — whether  a  stool  or  a  pile 
of  leather,  it  mattered  not, — relating  some  tale  of  the  Revolu 
tion,  or  listening  to  some  romantic  story  from  the  lips  of  the 
respected  Mr.  Short.  ;T  was  upon  such  an  evening,  and  at 
such  a  place,  that  our  story  commences.  Squire  Smith,  Ned 
Green,  and  a  jovial  sort  of  a  fellow  by  the  name  of  Sandy, 
were  seated  around  the  red-hot  cylinder.  Squire  Smith  was 
what  some  would  term  a  "man  of  consequence/' — at  least, 


SPECULATION   AND   ITS  CONSEQUENCE.  257 

he  thought  so.  Be  it  known  that  this  squire  was  by  no 
means  a  daily  visitor  at  the  work-shop  of  our  hero.  He  came 
in  occasionally,  and  endeavored. to  impress  upon  his  mind  that 
which  he  had  settled  in  his  own,  namely,  that  he,  Robert 
Short,  might  be  a  great  man. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  he,  with  an  air  of  importance,  "I 
tell  you  what,  it  is  against  all  reason,  it  is  contrary  to  com 
mon  sense  and  everything  else,  that  you  remain  any  longer 
riveted  down  to  this  old  benc~h.  It  will  be  your  ruin;  'pend 
upon  it,  it  will  be  your  ruin." 

"How  so?"  eagerly  inquired  Mr.  Short. 
"Why,"  replied   the  squire,  "it's  no  use  forme  to  go 
into  particulars.     But  why  do  you  not  associate  with  more 
respectable  and  fashionable  company?  " 

"  Is  not  the  present  company  respectable?  "  resumed  Mr. 
Short;  "and  as  for  the  fashion,  I  follow  my  own." 

Squire  Smith  did  not  reply  to  this  inquiry,  but  stood  shak 
ing  his  head,  and  appeared  at  a  loss  for  words  with  which  to 
answer. 

"  Perhaps  your  ideas  of  respectability,"  continued  the 
squire,  "  are  not  in  accordance  with  mine." 

"Ay,  ay;  true,  true,"  interrupted  Sandy,  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulder. 

Mr.  Smith  continued  his  remarks,  appearing  not  to  notice 
the  interruption.  "Perhaps,"  said  he,  "one  may  be  as 
honest  as  the  days  are  long ;  but,  sir,  he  is  far  from  being 
respectable,  in  my  humble  opinion,  if  he  is  not  genteel, — 
and  certainly  if  he  is  not  fashionably  dressed  he  is  not.  He 
does  not  think  enough  of  himself ;  that 's  it,  my  dear  Mr. 
Short,  he  does  not  think  enough  of  himself." 

"But  he  is  honest,"  replied  Mr.  Short.     "  Supposing  he 

does  not  dress  so  fashionably  as  you  would  wish,  would  you 

condemn  him  for  the  cut  of  his  coat,  or  the  quality  of  his 

cloth  ?    Perhaps  his  means  are  not  very  extensive,  and  will 

22* 


258  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

not  admit  of  a  very  expensive  outlay,  merely  for  show.  It 
is  much  better,  my  dear  sir,  to  be  clothed  in  rags  and  out  of 
debt,  than  to  be  attired  in  the  most  costly  apparel,  and  that 
not  paid  for.  Sir,  to  hold  up  your  head  and  say  you  owe 
no  man,  is  to  be  free,  free  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word/' 

"  Ah,  I  must  be  on  the  move,"  interrupted  the  squire,  at 
the  same  time  looking  at  his  "gold  lever."  And  off  he 
started. 

Squire  Smith  had  said  enough  for  that  night ;  to  have  said 
more  would  have  injured  his  plan.  Mr.  Green  and  Sandy 
shook  hands  with  their  friend  Robert,  and,  it  being  late,  they 
bade  him  "good-by,"  and  parted.  Our  hero  was  now  left 
alone.  Snuffing  the  candle,  that  had  well-nigh  burnt  to  the 
socket,  he  placed  more  fuel  upon  the  fire,  and,  resting  his 
hands  upon  his  knees  and  his  head  upon  his  hands,  he  began 
to  think  over  the  sayings  of  his  friend  the  squire. 

Robert  Short  saw  nothing  of  the  squire  for  many  days 
after  the  event  just  described  transpired.  One  day,  as  he 
began  his  work,  the  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  the 
long  absent  but  not  forgotten  squire  rushed  in,  shouting 
"Speculation!  speculation!"  Mr.  Short  threw  aside  his 
last,  and  listened  with  feelings  of  astonishment  to  the  elo 
quent  words  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  his  unexpected  visitor. 
"Gull,  the  broker,"  continued  the  squire,  "has  just  offered 
me  a  great  bargain.  I  have  come  to  make  a  proposition, 
•\Vhich  is,  that  you  and  I  accept  his  offer,  and  make  our 
fortunes." 

"  Fortunes  !  "  exclaimed  the  son  of  Crispin;  "speculate 
in  what'?" 

"  In  eastern  land,"  was  the  reply. 

Bob  Short's  countenance  assumed  a  desponding  appear 
ance  ;  he  had  heard  of  many  losses  caused  by  venturing  in 
these  speculations,  and  had  some  doubts  as  to  his  success, 


SPECULATION    AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCE.  259 

should  he  accept.  Then,  again,  he  had  heard  of  those  who 
had  been  fortunate,  and  he  inquired  the  conditions  of  sale. 

"Why,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  Esq.,  "old  Varnum  Gull  has 
three  thousand  acres  of  good  land,  upon  which  are,  as  he 
assures  ine,  some  beautiful  watering  places.  It  is  worth  five 
dollars  an  acre ;  he  offers  it  to  me  for  one,  and  a  grand 
chance  it  is;  the  terms  are  cash." 

"  Are  you  certain  as  to  the  quality  of  the  land  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Short. 

"  Perfectly  certain,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  would  not  advise 
you  wrong  for  the  world ;  but  I  now  think  it  best  to  form  a 
sort  of  co-partnership,  and  purchase  the  land.  There  is  no 
doubt  but  that  we  can  dispose  of  it  at  a  great  advantage. 
Will  you  not  agree  to  mj»  proposals,  and  accept'?" 

"I  will,"  answered  Mr.  Short.  "But  how  can  I  obtain 
fifteen  hundred  dollars?  I  have  but  a  snug  thousand." 

"0,  don't  trouble  yourself  about  that,"  replied  the  de- 

'  lighted  squire.     "  I  will  loan  you  the  balance  at  once.     You 

can  return  it  at  some  convenient  time.    What  say  you  ?  will 

you  accompany  me  to  the  broker's,  and  inform  him  of  the 

agreement?  " 

Mr.  Short,  after  a  moment's  delay,  arose,  and,  laying  aside 
his  leather  apron,  took  the  squire  by  the  arm,  and  both  sal 
lied  forth  in  search  of  the  office  of  Varnum  Gull.  After 
wending  their  way  through  short  streets  and  long  lanes,  nar 
row  avenues  and  wide  alleys,  they  came  to  a  small  gate,  upon 
which  was  fastened  a  small  tin  sign  with  the  following  in 
scription:  "  V.  Gull,  broker,  up  the  yard,  round  the  corner, 
up  two  pair  of  stairs."  The  squire  and  Mr.  Short  followed 
the  directions  laid  down,  and,  having  gone  up  the  yard  and 
turned  round  the  corner,  they  found  themselves  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  They  stood  for  a  moment  silent,  and  were 
about  to  ascend,  when  a  voice  from  above  attracted  their 
attention. 


260  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

"  'Olio,  Squire,  'ere's  the  box;  walk  right  up  'ere:  only 
look  out.  there  's  an  'ole  in  the  stairs." 

Our  hero  looked  above,  and  perceived  a  man  with  green 
spectacles  drawing  his  head  in. 

"  We  will  go  up,"  said  the  squire,  "and  look  out  for  the 
hole :  but,  as  the  stairway  is  rather  dark,  we  shall  not  see 
much  ;  therefore  we  shall  be  obliged  to  feel  our  way." 

They  ascended,  and  escaped  without  injury.  A  little 
short  man  met  them  at  the  door,  holding  in  his  hand  a  paper 
bearing  some  resemblance  to  a  map. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Smith,  I  feared  you  would  lose  that  'ere 
bargain  I  expatiated  on.  I  'ave  received  many  good  offers, 
but  'ave  reserved  it  for  you.  Your  friend,  ha?  "  he  con 
tinued,  at  the  same  time  striking*  Mr.  Short  in  no  gentle 
manner  upon  the  shoulder. 

"  Not  friend  Hay,  but  friend  Sho?'t,"  replied  the  squire. 

"  Hall  the  same,  only  an  error  in  the  spelling,"  resumed 
the  broker.  "  Good-morning,  Mr.  Short;  s'pose  you  'ave 
become  'quainted  with  the  rare  chance  I '  ve  offered,  ant 
ye  ?  and  wish  to  accept  it,  don't  ye  ?  and  can  pay  for  it, 
can't  ye  ?  Such  an  opportunity  is  seldom  met  with,  by 
which  to  make  one's  fortune." 

"  Well."  replied  Mr.  Short,  improving  the  time  Mr.  Gull 
stopped  to  breathe,  "  well,  I  had  some  idea  of  so  doing." 

"  Hidea  !  "  quickly  responded  the  broker  ;  "  why  will  you 
'esitate?  read  that  !  "  and  he  handed  a  paper  to  Mr.  Short, 
which  paper  he  kept  for  reference,  and  pointed  out  to  him 
an  article  which  read  as  follows  : 

"It  is  astonishing  what  enormous  profits  are  at  present 
realized  by  traders  in  Eastern  Land.  One  of  our  neighbors 
purchased  a  thousand  acres,  at  one  dollar  and  twenty-five 
cents  per  acre,  of  Gull,  our  enterprising  broker,  and  sold  it 
yesterday  for  the  round  sum  of  three  thousand  dollars,  re- 


SPECULATION   AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCE.  261 

ceiving  thereby  the  enormous  profit  of  nineteen  hundred  and 
seventy-five  dollars.  He  was  a  poor  man,  but  by  this  lucky 
movement  has  become  rich." 

As  soon  as  our  hero  had  read  this  cheering  intelligence, 
he  became  elated  with  the  prospect,  and  soon  came  to  a  final 
agreement  with  the  squire  to  accept  the  offer.  Papers  were 
drawn  up,  signed  by  each,  and  a  check  given  to  the  broker, 
for  which  was  returned  a  deed  for  the  land.  They  then  left 
the  office,  Mr.  Gull  politely  bidding  them  good- by,  with  a 
caution  to  look  out  for  the  "  'ole."  They  did  look  out  for 
the  hole,  but  it  might  have  been  that  the  cunning  broker 
referred  to  a  hole  of  more  consequence  than  that  in  the  stairs. 
The  squire  on  that  day  invited  Mr.  Short  to  his  house  to 
dine.  This,  however,  he  did  not  accept,  but  returned  to  his 
shop.  One  week  had  passed  away,  during  which  time  the 
squire  was  often  at  the  shop  of  Bob  Short,  but  no  cus 
tomer  had  yet  applied  for  the  land.  It  was  near  dusk  on  the 
eighth  day  succeeding  the  purchase,  as  they  were  talking 
over  the  best  way  by  which  to  dispose  of  it,-  when  a  short 
man  entered,  wrapped  up  in  a  large  cloak,  and  a  large  bushy 
fur  cap  upon  his  head. 

"  I  understand,"  said  he,  "  you  have  a  few  acres  of  land 
you  wish  to  dispose  of." 

"  Exactly  so,"  answered  the  squire. 

"  And  how  much  do  you  charge  per  acre  1 "  inquired  the 
stranger. 

' '  That  depends  upon  the  number  you  wish.  Do  you  wish 
to  purchase  all.?  " 

'•'  That  depends  upon  the  price  charged,"  was  the  reply. 

"If  you  wish  all,"  continued  Mr.  Smith,  "  we  will  sell 
for  four  dollars  an  acre.  That  is  dog  cheap,  and  a  great 
sacrifice." 

"Well,"  resumed  the  stranger,  "  I  will  take  it  on  con- 


262  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

ditions ;  namely,  I  will  pay  you  your  price,  and  if  the  land 
answers  my  purpose  I  will  keep  it, —  if  not,  you  will  return 
me  the  amount  of  money  I  pay." 

"  That  is  rather  a  hard  bargain.  I  know  it  to  be  good 
land,"  answered  the  squire. 

"  Then,"  continued  the  stranger,  "  if  you  know  it  to  be 
good,  certainly  there  can  be  no  danger  in  disposing  of  it  on 
the  conditions  I  ha*e  named." 

After  a  few  moments'  conversation  with  Mr.  Short,  they 
agreed  to  sell  to.  the  stranger.  Papers  were  immediately 
drawn  up  and  signed  by  Messrs.  Smith  and  Short,  agreeing 
to  return  the  money  provided  the  land  did  not  give  satisfac 
tion.  The  sum  of  twelve  thousand  dollars  was  paid  in  cash 
to  the  signers,  and  the  papers  given  into  the  hands  of  the 
purchaser,  who  then  left.  Robert  Short  on  that  night  did 
really  feel  rich.  This  was  six  thousand  dollars  apiece ;  after 
Mr.  Short  had  paid  the  fifteen  hundred  borrowed,  he  had 
forty-five  hundred  left.  Both  were  equally  certain  that 
the  land  would  give  entire  satisfaction,  and  acted  according 
to  this  belief.  With  a  light  heart  he  went  home,  and  com 
municated  the  joyful  intelligence  to  his  wife,  who  had  from 
the  first  been  opposed  to  the  trade.  He  did  not,  however, 
inform  her  of  the  terms  on  which  he  had  sold.  In  a  few 
days  he  had  disposed  of  his  shop*  and  tools  to  one  of  his 
former  workmen.  Many  were  surprised  when  the  sign  of 
"  Robert  Short  "  was  taken  from  its  long  resting-place  over 
the  door.  Mr.  Short  now  began  to  think  the  house  in  which 
he-  had  for  many  years  resided  was  not  quite  good  enough, 
and  therefore  engaged  a  larger  and  more  expensive  one. 
He  ordered  new  furniture,  purchased  a  carriage  and  horses, 
and  had  his  new  house  fitted  out  under  the  direction  of  his 
friend,  the  squire.  He  rented  a  large  store  ;  bought  large 
quantities  of  shoes  and  leather,  partly  on  credit.  His  busi 
ness  at  first  prospered,  but  in  a  short  time  became  quite 


SPECULATION   AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCE.  263 

dull ;  his  former  customers  left,  and  all  business  seemed  at 
a  stand-still.  In  the  mean  time,  the  broker  had  left  town, 
having  sold  out  his  office  to  a  young  man.  Matters  stood 
thus,  when,  early  in  the  morning  on  a  pleasant  day  in  June, 
as  the  squire  and  Mr.  Short  were  seated  in  the  counting- 
room  of  the  latter,  a  man  dressed  in  a  light  summer  dress 
entered. 

"Good-morning,"  said  the  visitor.  "Business  is  quite 
lively,  I  suppose  7  " 

"0,  it's  moderate,  nothing  extra,"  replied  Mr.  Short ; 
"  won't  you  be  seated  1 " 

The  stranger  seated  himself. 

"  Mr.  Robert  Short  is  your  name,  is  it  not  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  It  is,  sir." 

"  Did  I  not  make  a  bargain  with  you  about  some  eastern 
land,  a  few  months  since  ?" 

"Yes,  some  person  did ;"  and  Mr.  Short  immediately  recog 
nized  him  as  the  purchaser.  The  new  comer  then  took  from 
his  pocket  the  paper  of  agreement,  and  presented  it  for  the 
inspection  of  the  two  gentlemen. 

"  Are  you  not  satisfied  with  your  bargain?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Smith. 

"  Not  exactly,"  replied  the  stranger,  laughing. 

"Why,  what  fault  is  there  in  it  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  I  suppose  a  report  of  my 
examination  will  be  acceptable." 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Short. 

' '  Then  I  can  give  it  in  a  few  words.  It  is  a  good  wafer- 
ing  place,  being  WHOLLY  COVERED  WITH  WATER  ;  and  is  of 
no  value  unless  it  could  be  drained,  and  that,  I  think,  is 
impossible." 

The  squire  was  astonished ;  Mr.  Short  knew  not  what  to 


264  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  water  bought  for  land  ?  "  in 
quired  Squire  Smith. 

"  The  location  of  it  is  in  a  large  pond  of  water,  twelve  miles 
in  length,  and  about  six  in  width,  and  is  known  in  those 
parts  by  the  name  of  the.'  Big  Pond.'  But,"  continued  the 
stranger,  "I  must  be  gone;  please  return  me  my  money, 
according  to  agreement." 

After  some  talk,  the  stranger  agreed  to  call  the  next  day. 
The  next  day  came,  and  with  it  came  the  stranger.  Mr. 
Short  had  tried  in  vain  to  obtain  the  requisite  sum,  and  was 
obliged  to  request  him  to  call  the  next  day.  He  came  the 
next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  but  received  no  money  ; 
and  he  was  at  length  obliged  to  attach  the  property  of  the 
squire,  as  also  that  of  Mr.  Short.  His  other  creditors  also 
came  in  with  their  bills.  All  the  stock  of  Mr.  Short  was 
sold  at  auction,  and  he  was  a  poor  man.  He  obtained  a 
small  house,  that  would  not  compare  with  the  one  he  had 
lived  in  in  former  years.  He  had  no  money  of  his  own,  and 
was  still  deeply  in  debt.  He  was  obliged  to  work  at  such 
jobs  as  came  along,  but  at  length  obtained  steady  employ 
ment.  The  squire,  who  was  the  prime  cause  of  all  his 
trouble,  sailed  for  a  foreign  port,  leaving  all  his  bills  unpaid. 
In  a  short  time  Mr.  Short  obtained  a  sufficient  sum  to  buy 
back  his  old  shop,  in  which  to  this  day  he  has  steadily  worked, 
with  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  consequence  of  speculation. 


RETROSPECTION. 

HE  had  drank  deep  and  long  from  out 

The  bacchanalian's  bowl ; 
Had  folt  its  poisonous  arrows  pierce 

The  recess  of  his  soul ; 
And  now  his  footsteps  turned  to  where 

His  childhood's  days  were  cast, 
And  sat  him  'neath  an  old  oak  tree 

To  muse  upon  the  past. 
Beneath  its  shade  he  oft  had  sat 

In  days  when  he  was  young  ; 
Ere  sorrow,  like  that  old  oak  tree, 

Its  own  deep  shadows  flung  ; 
Beneath  that  tree  his  school-mates  met, 

There  joined  in  festive  mirth, 
And  not  a  place  seemed  half  so  dear 

To  him,  upon  the  earth. 

The  sun  had  passed  the  horizon, 

Yet  left  a  golden  light 
Along  a  cloudless  sky  to  mark 

A  pathway  for  the  night ; 
The  moon  was  rising  silently 

To  reign  a  queen  on  high, 
To  marshal  all  the  starry  host, 

In  heaven's  blue  canopy. 
In  sight  the  schoolhouse  stood,  to  which 

In  youth  he  had  been  led 
By  one  who  now  rests  quietly 

Upon  earth's  silent  bed. 
And  near  it  stood  the  church  whose  aisles 

His  youthful  feet  had  trod  ; 


266  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

Where  his  young  mind  first  treasured  in 
The  promises  of  God. 

There  troops  of  happy  children  ran 

With  gayety  along ; 
'Twas  agony  for  him  to  hear 

Their  laughter  and  their  song. 
For  thoughts  of  youthful  days  came  up 

And  crowded  on  his  brain. 
Till,  crushed  with  woo  unutterable, 

It  sank  beneath  its  pain. 
Pain !  not  such  as  sickness  brings, 

For  that  can  be  allayed, 
But  pain  from  which  a  mortal  shrinks 

Heart-stricken  and  dismayed : 
The  body  crushed  beneath  its  woe 

May  some  deliverance  find, 
But  who  on  earth  hath  power  to  heal 

The  agony  of  mind  ? 

O  Memory  !  it  long  had  slept ; 

But  now  it  woke  to  power, 
And  brought  before  him  all  the  past, 

From  childhood's  earliest  hour. 
He  saw  himself  in  school-toy  prime ; 

Then  youth,  its  pleasures,  cares, 
Came  up  before  him,  and  he  saw 

How  cunningly  the  snares 
Were  si-t  to  cateli  him  as  he  ran 

In  thoughtless  haste  along, 
To  charm  him  with  deceitful  smiles, 

And  with  its  siren  song  : 
He  saw  a  seeming  friendly  hand 

Hold  out  the  glittering  wine, 
Without  a  thought  that  deep  within 

A  serpent's  form  did  twine. 

Then  manhood  came  ;  then  he  did  love, 
And  with  a  worthy  pride 

He  led  a  cherished  being  to 
The  altar  as  his  bride  ; 


RETROSPECTION.  267 

And  mid  the  gay  festivity 

Passed  round  the  flowing  wine, 
And  friends  drank,  in  the  sparkling  cup, 

"  A  health  to  thee  and  thine." 
A  health  !    0,  as  the  past  came  up, 

The  wanderer's  heart  was  stirred 
And  as  a  madman  he  poured  forth 

Deep  curses  on  that  word. 
For  well  he  knew  that  "  health  "  had  been 

The  poison  of  his  life  ; 
Had  made  the  portion  of  his  soul 

With  countless  sorrows  rife. 

Six  years  passed  by  —  a  change  had  come, 

And  what  a  change  was  that ! 
No  more  the  comrades  of  his  youth 

With  him  as  comrades  sat. 
Duties  neglected,  friends  despised, 

Himself  with  naught  to  do, 
A  mother  dead  with  anguish,  and 

A  wife  heart-broken  too. 
Another  year  —  and  she  whom  he 

Had  promised  to  protect 
Died  in  the  midst  of  poverty, 

A  victim  of  neglect. 
But  ere  she  died  she  bade  him  kneel 

Beside  herself  in  prayer, 
And  prayed  to  God  that  he  would  look 

In  pity  on  them  there  : 

And  bless  her  husband,  whom  she  loved, 

And  all  the  past  forgive, 
And  cause  him,  ere  she  died,  begin 

A  better  life  to  live. 
She  ceased  to  speak, —  the  husband  row;, 

And,  penitent,  did  say, 
While  tears  of  deep  contrition  flowed, 

"  I  '11  dash  the  bowl  away  !  " 
A  smile  passed  o'er  the  wife's  pale  face, 

She  grasped  his  trembling  hand, 


268  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY: 

Gave  it  one  pressure,  then  her  soul 

Passed  to  a  better  land. 
He  bent  to  kiss  her  pale  cold  lips, 

But  they  returned  it  not ; 
And  then  he  felt  the  loneliness 

And  sorrow  of  his  lot. 

• 

It  seemed  as  though  his  life  had  fled ; 

That  all  he  called  his  own, 
When  her  pure  spirit  took  its  flight, 

Had  with  that  spirit  flown. 
She  had  been  all  in  all  to  him, 

And  deep  his  heart  was  riven 
With  anguish,  as  he  thought  what  woe 

He  her  kind  heart  had  given. 
But  all  was  passed  ;  she  lay  in  death, 

The  last  word  had  been  said, 
The  soul  had  left  its  prison-house, 

And  up  to  heaven  had  fled  ; 
But  't  was  a  joy  for  him  to  know 

She  smiled  on  him  in  1  •»'. c. 
And  hope  did  whisper  in  his  heart, 

"  She  '11  guard  thee  from  above." 

He  sat  beneath  that  old  oak  tree, 

And  children  gathered  round, 
And  wondered  why  he  wept,  and  asked 

What  sorrow  he  had  found. 
^  Then  told  he  them  this  sad,  sad  tale, 

Which  I  have  told  to  you  ; 
They  asked  no  more  why  he  did  weep, 

For  they  his  sorrow  knew. 
And  soon  their  tears  began  to  fall, 

And  men  came  gathering  round, 
Till  quite  a  goodly  company 

Beneath  that  tree  was  found. 
The  wanderer  told  his  story  o'er, 

Unvarnished,  true  and  plain  ; 
And  on  that  night  three-score  of  men 

Did  pledge  them  to  abstain. 


NATUKE'S  FAIR  DAUGHTER,  BEAUTIFUL  WATER.     269 


NATURE'S  fair  daughter, 

Beautiful  water ! 

0,  hail  it  with  joy,  with  echoes  of  mirth, 
Wherever  it  sparkles  or  ripples  on  earth. 

Down  from  the  mountain, 

Up  from  the  fountain, 
Ever  it  cometh,  bright,  sparkling  and  clear, 
From  the  Creator,  our  pathway  to  cheer. 

Nobly  appearing, 

O'er  cliffs  careering, 
Pouring  impetuously  on  to  the  sea, 
Chanting,  unceasing,  the  song  of  the  free. 

See  how  it  flashes 

As  onward  it  dashes 
Over  the  pebbly  bed  of  the  brook, 
Singing  in  every  sequestered  nook. 

Now  gently  falling, 

As  if  'twere  calling 
Spirits  of  beauty  from  forest  and  dell 
To  welcome  it  on  to  grotto  and  cell. 

Beauteous  and  bright 

Gleams  it  in  light, 

Then  silently  flows  beneath  the  deep  glade, 
Emblem  of  life  in  its  sunshine  and  shade. 

Beautiful  water ! 

Nature's  fair  daughter ! 
Where'er  it  sparkles  or  ripples  on  earth, 
Hail  it  with  joy  and  with  echoes  of  mirth. 
23* 


270  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 


THE    TEST    OF    FRIENDSHIP. 

BRIGHTEST  shine  the  stars  above 
When  the  night  is  darkest  round  us ; 

Those  the  friends  we  dearest  love 

Who  were  near  when  sorrow  bound  us. 

When  no  clouds  o'ercast  our  sky, 

When  no  evil  doth  attend  us, 
Then  will  many  gather  nigh, 

Ever  ready  to  befriend  us. 

But  when  darkness  shades  our  path, 
When  misfortune  hath  its  hour, 

When  we  lie  beneath  its  wrath , 
Some  will  leave  us  to  its  power. 

Often  have  we  seen  at  night, 

When  the  clouds  have  gathered  o'er  us, 
One  lone  star  send  forth  its  light, 

Marking  out  the  path  before  us. 

Like  that  star  some  friendly  eye 
Will  beam  on  us  in  our  sorrow  ; 

And,  though  clouded  be  our  sky, 
We  know  there  '11  be  a  better  morrow. 

We  know  that  all  will  not  depart, 

That  some  will  gather  round  to  cheer  us : 

Know  we,  in  our  inmost  heart, 
Tried  and  faithful  friends  are  near  us. 

Brother,  those  who  do  not  go 

May  be  deeme'd  friends  forever ; 
Love  them,  trust  them,  have  them  know 

Nothing  can  your  friendship  sever. 


WEEP   NOT.  271 


WEEP    NOT. 

WEEP  not,  mother, 

For  another 
Tie  that  bound  thyself  to  earth 

Now  is  sundered, 

And  is  numbered 
With  those  of  a  heavenly  birth. 

She  hath  left  thee. 

God  bereft  thee 
Of  thy  dearest  earthly  friend ; 

Yet  thou  'It  meet  her, 

Thou  wilt  greet  her 
Where  reunions  have  no  end 

Her  life's  true  sun 

Its  course  did  run 
From  morn  unto  meridian  day ; 

And  now  at  eve 

It  takes  its  leave, 
Calmly  passing  hence  away. 

Watch  the  spirit  — 

'T  will  inherit 
Bliss  which  mortal  cannot  tell ; 

From  another 

World,  my  mother, 
Angels  whisper,  "  All  is  well." 

'Way  with  sadness ! 

There  is  gladness 
In  a  gathered  spirit  throng ; 

She,  ascended, 

Trials  ended, 
Joins  their  ranks  and  chants  their  song. 


272  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

Weep  not,  mother, 
For  another 

Tie  doth  bind  thyself  above ; 
Doubts  are  vanished, 
Sorrows  banished, 
She  is  happy  whom  you  love. 


RICH    AND    POOR. 

"GoOD-BY,  Ray,  good-by,"  said  George  Greenville; 
and  the  stage  wound  its  way  slowly  up  a  steep  ascent,  and 
was  soon  lost  to  view. 

"  Well,  well,  he  has  gone.  Glad  of  it,  heartily  glad  of  it ! 
When  will  all  these  paupers  be  gone?"  said  the  father  of 
George,  as  he  entered  the  richly-furnished  parlor,  and  seated 
himself  beside  an  open  window. 

"Why  so  glad?"  inquired  George,  who  listened  with 
feelings  of  regret  to  the  remark. 

"  Why  ?  "  resumed  the  owner  of  a  thousand  acres ;  "  ask 
me  no  questions ;  I  am  glad, — that 's  enough.  You  well  know 
my  mind  on  the  subject." 

"  Father,  act  not  thus.  Is  this  a  suitable  way  to  requite 
his  kindness?  " 

"Kindness!"  interrupted  the  old  man;  "say  not 'twas 
kindness  that  prompted  him  to  do  me  a  favor ;  rather  say 
't  was  his  duty, —  and  of  you  should  I  not  expect  better 
things  ?  Did  I  allow  you  to  visit  Lemont  but  to  become 
attainted  with  such  a  poverty-stricken,  pauper-bred  youth 
as  Ray  Bland?" 

Saying  this,  he  arose  and  left  the  room. 

George  seated  himself  in  the  chair  vacated  by  his  father. 
He  looked  across  the  verdant  fields,  and  mused  upon  his  pas 
sionate  remarks.  "Well,"  thought  he,  "I  was  right;  shall 
I  allow  the  god  of  Mammon  to  bind  me  down  ?  Of  what  use 
are  riches,  unless,  whilst  we  enjoy,  we  can  with  them  relieve 


274  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

the  wants  and  administer  to  the  necessities  of  our  fellow- 
men?  Shall  we  hoard  them  up,  or  shall  we  not  rather  give 
with  a  free  hand  and  a  willing  heart  to  those  who  have  felt 
misfortune's  scourging  rod, —  who  are  crushed,  oppressed  and 
trampled  upon,  by  not  a  few  of  their  more  wealthy  neigh 
bors?  "  In  such  a  train  of  thought  he  indulged  himself  till 
the  hour  of  dinner  arrived. 

George  Greenville  had  formed  an  acquaintance  with  Ray 
Bland  whilst  on  a  visit  to  a  neighboring  town.  He  was  a 
young  man,  possessing  those  fine  qualities  of  mind  that  con 
stitute  the  true  gentleman.  His  countenance  beamed  with 
intelligence,  and  his  sparkling  eye  betrayed  vivacity  of  mind, 
the  possession  of  which  was  a  sure  passport  to  the  best  of 
society.  When  the  time  came  that  George  was  to  return 
home  to  the  companionship  of  his  friends,  they  found  that 
ties  of  friendship  bound  them  which  could  not  be  easily  sev 
ered,  and  Ray  accepted  the  invitation  of  George  Greenville 
to  accompany  him,  and  spend  a  short  time  at  the  house  of 
his  father.  The  week  had  passed  away  in  a  pleasant  man 
ner.  The  hour  of  parting  had  come  and  gone.  The  fare 
well  had  been  taken,  the  "good-by"  had  been  repeated, 
when  the  conversation  above  mentioned  passed  between  him 
and  his  father. 

The  family  and  connections  of  George  were  rich ;  those 
of  Ray  were  poor.  The  former  lived  at  ease  in  the  midst  of 
pleasures,  and  surrounded  by  all  the  comforts  and  conve 
niences  of  life ;  the  latter  encountered  the  rough  waves  of 
adversity,  and  was  obliged  to  labor  with  assiduity,  to  sustain 
an  equal  footing  with  his  neighbors.  Thus  were  the  two 
friends  situated ;  and  old  Theodore  Greenville  scorned  the 
idea  of  having  his  son  associate  with  a  pauper,  as  he  termed 
all  those  who  were  not  the  possessors  of  a  certain  amount  of 
money.—  without  which,  in  his  opinion,  none  were  worthy  to 
associate  with  the  rich. 


RICH   AND    POOR.  '11  ~) 

i;  Ray  is  a  person  not  so  much  to  be  hated  and  sneered  at 
as  you  would  suppose,"  said  George,  breaking  the  silence, 
and  addressing  his  father  at  the  dinner-table. 

"  George,  I  have  set  my  heart  against  him,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Then,"  continued  the  first  speaker,  "I  suppose  you  are 
not  open  to  conviction.  If  I  can  prove  him  worthy  of  your 
esteem  and  confidence,  will  you  believe'?" 

' '  That  cannot  be  done,  perhaps.  You  may  think  him  to 
be  a  worthy  young  man  ;  but  I  discard  the  old  saying  that 
poverty  is  no  disgrace  !  I  say  that  it  is  ;  and  one  that  can, 
if  its  victim  choose,  be  washed  away.  Ray  Bland  is  a  pau 
per,  that 's  my  only  charge  against  him ;  and  all  the  thun 
dering  eloquence  of  a  Cicero  will  not  alter  my  opinion,  or 
move  me  an  iota  from  the  stand  I  have  taken. —  which  is, 
now  and  ever,  to  reject  the  company  of  paupers.  It  is  my 
request  that  you  do  the  same." 

Amelia,  the  sister  of  George,  now  joined  in  the  conversa 
tion,  inquiring  of  her  father  whether  it  was  against  his  Avill 
for  her  to  associate  with  the  poor. 

"  Precisely  so,"  was  the  brief  reply;  and  the  conversation 
ended.  The  father  left  the  house  for  a  short  walk,  as  was 
his  custom,  whilst  George  and  Amelia  retired  to  the  parlor, 
and  conversed,  for  a  long  time,  upon  the  rash  and  unjust 
decision  of  their  parent.  The  mutual  attachment  that  existed 
between  George  and  Ray  was  not  looked  upon  with  indiffer 
ence'  by  the  sister  of  the  former ;  and  she  determined  upon 
using  all  the  means  in  her  power  to  bring  the  latter  into  the 
good  will  of  her  father ;  she  resolved,  like  a  noble  girl,  to 
cherish  a  social  and  friendly  feeling  toward  the  friend  of  her 
brother.  He  who  knows  the  warmth  of  a  sister's  affection 
can  imagine  with  what  constancy  she  adhered  to  this  deter 
mination.  The  command  of  her  father  not  to  associate  with 
the  poor  only  served  to  strengthen  her  resolution,  for  she 


276  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

knew  with  what  obstacles  her  brother  would  have  to  contend. 
She  had  a  kind  heart,  that  would  not  allow  a  fellow-being  to 
want,  so  long  as  she  had,  or  could  obtain,  the  means  to 
relieve  him. 

"  Do  you  think  father  was  in  earnest  in  what  he  said  ?  " 
inquired  Amelia. 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  his  sincerity,"  replied  George; 
' '  but  what  led  you  to  ask  such  a  question  'I ' ' 

"Because,  you  know,  he  often  speaks  ironically;  and,  as 
he  left  the  dinner- room  with  mother,  he  smiled,  and  said 
something  about  the  poor,  and  a  trick  he  was  about  to  play." 

"  True,  Amelia,"  replied  George,  "  he  is  to  play  a  trick; 
but  it  concerns  not  us.  You  know  poor  old  Smith  is  one  of 
father's  tenants.  Smith  has  been  sick,  and  has  not  been 
able  to  procure  funds  with  which  to  pay  his  rent,  and  father 
intends  to  engage  a  person  to  take  out  all  the  doors  and  win 
dows  of  the  house.  He  hopes  Smith  will  thus  be  forced  to 
leave.  I  have  been  thinking  whether  we  cannot  devise  some 
plan  to  prevent  the  poor  man  from  being  turned  thus 
abruptly  fromfhe  house." 

"I  am  sure  we  can,"  replied  Amelia;  "yet  I  had  much 
rather  have  a  trick  played  upon  us  than  upon  poor  Smith. 
Can  you  not  propose  some  way  by  which  we  can  prevent 
father  from  carrying  out  his  intentions?  " 

"I  will  give  you  the  money,"  replied  George,  "if  you 
will  convey  it  to  Mr.  Smith,  so  that  he  will  be  enabled  to 
pay  his  rent.  Recollect  it  must  be  carried  in  the  night,  and 
fit  is  night,  as  father  expects  to  commence  his  operations  to 
morrow  or  next  day.  You  know  that  I  cannot  go,  as  my 
time  will  be  fully  occupied  in  attending  upon  some  important 
business  at  home."  It  was  not  necessary  to  make  this  offer 
more  than  once.  The  heart  of  Amelia  bounded  with  joy, 
as  she  anticipated  being  the  bearer  of  the  money  to  Smith ; 


RICH  AND   POOR.  277 

and,  shortly  after  dark,  being  provided  with  it,  she  proceeded 
to  his  house. 

It  was  a  dark  night.  The  moon  was  obscured  by  thick 
clouds,  and  no  twinkling  star  shone  to  guide  her  on  her  er 
rand  of  mercy.  As  she  drew  near  the  lonely  dwelling  of 
Paul  Smith,  she  perceived  no  light.  She  feared  that  he 
might  be  absent.  Stealthily  along  she  crept,  and,  listening 
at  the  door,  heard  the  voice  of  prayer,  imploring  aid  and 
support  daring  the  trials  of  life,  that  relief  might  soon  be 
sent.  'Amelia  silently  opened  the  door,  and  placed  the 
money  on  a  table,  accompanied  with  a  note  to  Smith,  request 
ing  him  not  to  disclose  the  manner  in  which  he  received  it, 
and,  as  silently  withdrawing,  wended  her  way  home.  As 
she  entered  the  parlor,  she  found  her  father  and  brother  en 
gaged  in  earnest  conversation, —  so  earnest  that  she  was  not 
at  first  noticed. 

"  Confound  my  tenants  !  "  said  Mr.  Greenville.  {(  There 's 
old  Paul  Smith ;  if  to-morrow's  sun  does  not  witness  him 
bringing  my  just  dues,  he  shall  leave, —  yes,  George,  he 
shall  leave  !  I  am  no  more  to  be  trifled  with  and  perplexed 
by  his  trivial  excuses.  All  my  tenants  who  do  not  pay  shall 
toe  the  same  mark.  I  '11  make  them  walk  up,  fodder  or  no 
fodder  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  old  Smith  shall  know  that  I  have  some 
principle  left,  if  I  have  passed  my  sixtieth  year  —  that  he 
shall !  Slipnoose,  the  lawyer,  shall  have  one  job." 


"  You  are  always  visiting  your  friends.  George.  It  seems 
as  though  all  are  your  friends.  Yet  I  don't  blame  you,  for 
friends  are  very  happy  appendages  to  one's  character.  I  pity 
the  man  who  lives  a  friendless  life.  That's  the  reason  I  I 
have  been  such  a  friend  to  Smith, —  but  no  longer  !"  As 
he  said  this  the  wealthy  landlord  left  the  room. 

Amelia  related  to  her  brother  an  account  of  her  adventure, 
and  both  were    thankful   that   they  been   instrumental   in 
24 


278  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

• 

relieving  the  wants  of  their  poor  neighbors.  The  next  morn 
ing,  seated  at  the  table,  Mr.  Greenville  began  again  to  ex 
press  his  opinion  respecting  poor  people  in  general,  and  Paul 
Smith  in  particular,  when  a  loud  rap  at  the  door  somewhat 
startled  him.  In  a  few  moments  a  servant  entered,  and  gave 
information  that  a  person  was  at  the  door  who  wished  to  see 
Mr.  Greenville.  Arriving  there,  the  landlord  encountered 
his  tenant,  Smith,  who  immediately  told  him  that  by  some 
kind  providence  he  was  enabled  to  pay  him  his  due,  and 
hoped  that  in  future  he  should  be  prompt  in  his  payments. 

The  landlord  took  the  money,  and,  looking  it  over,  handed 
him  a  receipt  for  the  same,  and  returned  to  the  breakfast- 
table.  Nothing  was  said  about  Smith  until  Mr.  Greenville, 
as  he  left  the  room,  remarked  "that  he  did  not  know  but 
that  Smith  meant  well  enough." 

Nearly  a  month  had  elapsed  and  nothing  had  been  heard 
of  Ray  Bland,  when,  on  a  certain  morning,  Mr.  Greenville 
came  in  and  handed  George  a  letter.  Upon  opening  it, 
George  found  it  to  be  written  by  his  friend  Ray,  informing 
him  of  his  safe  arrival  home,  thanking  him  for  the  kind 
attention  he  received  during  his  visit,  and  expressing  great 
pleasure  in  soon  having  another  opportunity  to  visit  him. 
George  communicated  this  intelligence  to  Amelia,  and  they 
determined  upon  using  their  united  efforts  in  endeavoring  to 
bring  over  the  kind  feelings  of  their  father  to  their  young, 
but  poor,  friend. 

"  It 's  no  use  for  you  to  talk,"  said  old  Mr.  Greenville, 
after  a  long  conversation  with  the  two  ;  "the  die  is  cast.  I 
have  resolved,  and  all  the  arguments  you  can  brizg  forward 
•nill  not  cause  me  to  break  my  resolution." 

"Well,"  remarked  George,  "perhaps  the  day  will  come 
when  you  will  deeply  regret  forming  such  a  resolution.  Per 
haps  ths  gunshine  of  prosperity  will  not  always  illumine  our 
path." 


RICH   AND    POOR.  279 

"Be  that  as  it  may,"  interrupted  Mr.  Greenville,  "we 
not  allow  our  imagination  to  wander  forth  into  the  mys 
tical  regions  of  the  future,  or  picture  to  ourselves  scenes  of 
wretchedness,  if  such  await  us.  Flatter  me  not  with  the 
good  intentions  of  Kay  Bland." 

Months  passed  away,  and  the  children  of  the  proud  Mr. 
Greenville  forbore  to  mention  in  the  presence  of  their  father 
aught  concerning  their  friend  Ray  Bland,  or  to  excite  the 
anger  of  the  old  gentleman  by  combating  his  prejudices 
against  the  poor. 

Months  passed  away,  and  again  Ray  Bland  found  himself 
beneath  the  roof  of  his  former  friend.  He  was  received  by 
George  and  Amelia  with  the  cordiality  that  had  ever  marked 
his  intercourse  with  them ;  but  the  father  was,  if  possible, 
more  morose  and  sullen  than  usual. 

Ray  had  several  times  made  the  attempt  to  know  the  cause 
of  this  coldness,  but  as  often  as  he  alluded  to  it  George 
would  invariably  turn  the  subject ;  and  he  forbore  to  ques 
tion  further,  content  with  the  happiness  which  he  enjoyed  in 
the  society  of  those  he  held  so  dear. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  fine  day  in  the  early  spring,  that 
the  three  friends  sat  together.  It  was  the  last  evening  of  his 
visit,  and  Ray  expected  not  to  return  for  a  long  time.  Alone 
in  his  study,  the  father  vented  his  indignation  against  pau 
pers,  which  respect  for  his  daughter's  feelings  only  prevented 
in  the  presence  of  their  visitor.  He  opened  the  casement. 
Clouds  were  gathering  in  the  sky,  and  now  and  then  a  faint 
flash  of  lightning  illumined  the  increasing  darkness ;  and  the 
far-off  voice  of  the  storm  was  audible  from  the  distance,  each 
moment  increasing  in  strength  and  violence.  Soon  the  storm 
was  upon  them. 

The  old  gentleman  retired  to  his  apartment.  Each  mo 
ment  the  storm  increased  in  violence,  and  in  vain  did  he 
strive  to  close  his  eyes  in  sleep. 


280  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

At  length  a  flash  more  vivid,  accompanied  by  a  peal  of 
thunder  more  terrific  than  any  that  had  preceded  it,  startled 
the  inmates  of  the  mansion.  The  wind  howled  terribly,  and 
the  old  trees  groaned  and  creaked  about  the  dwelling  with  a 
fearful  and  terrific  sound. 

Within  all  was  still  and  quiet.  No  word  was  spoken,  for 
it  was  a  fearful  night,  and  in  fear  and  dread  they  suspended 
their  conversation. 

Amelia  first  broke  the  silence.  "  Something  must  be 
burning,"  exclaimed  she.  In  an  instant  the  cry  of  fire  was 
heard.  All  started  up  and  rushed  to  the  door ;  and  there, 
indeed,  they  were  witnesses  of  a  sight  which  might  well  ap 
pall.  The  whole  upper  part  of  the  house  was  in  flames.  In 
stantly  the  cause  flashed  upon  them.  The  house  had  been 
struck  and  set  on  fire  by  lightning.  "My  father!  0,  my 
father!"  shrieked  Amelia,  and  fell  fainting  to  the  floor. 
Quick  as  the  word  came  the  thought  of  Ray  Bland  that  the 
aged  Mr.  Greenville  might  be  in  danger ;  and  ere  George 
Greenville  had  borne  his  sister  to  a  place  of  safety,  through 
flame  and  smoke  had  Ray  Bland  reached  the  chamber  which 
he  knew  the  old  gentleman  occupied.  It  was  locked.  One  blow 
of  his  foot,  with  all  the  force  he  could  muster,  and  locks  and 
bolts  gave  way.  The  room  was  nearly  enveloped  in  flames,  the 
curtains  of  the  window  and  bed  had  been  consumed,  and  now 
the  flames  had  seized  the  wood-work  and  burned  with  great 
fury.  Upon  the  floor,  prostrate  as  if  dead,  lay  the  proud 
man,  who  scorned  and  detested  the  poor,  and  who  had  boasted 
of  being  beyond  the  reach  of  adversity.  To  lift  him  in  his 
arms  and  bear  him  to  the  street  was  the  work  of  an  instant. 
He  had  only  been  stunned,  and  the  drenching  rain  through 
which  he  was  carried  soon  revived  him.  Ray  bore  him  to 
the  house  of  poor  Smith,  the  nearest  to  his  own ;  and  there, 
with  feelings  of  anguish  which  cannot  be  described,  sur 
rounded  by  his  children  and  neighbors,  the  old  man  learned 


RICH    AND    POOR.  281 

a  lesson  which  his  whole  previous  life  had  not  taught,  of  the 
dependence  which  every  member  of  society  has  upon  the 
whole.  While  his  riches  were  taking  wings  to  fly  away  even 
before  his  own  eyes,  he  felt  how  foolish  and  wicked  was  his 
past  conduct ;  and  ever  after  the  poor  found  no  warmer  friend 
or  more  liberal  hand  than  that  of  old  George  Greenville. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  months  a  new  and  spacious  building 
was  erected  upon  the  site  of  the  one  destroyed ;  and  the  neigh 
bors  say  that  the  pretty  cottage  which  is  being  built  just 
over  the  way  is  to  be  the  future  residence  of  Ray  Bland  and 
the  fair  Amelia,  whose  aristocratic  father  now  knows  no  dis 
tinction,  save  in  merit,  between  the  rich  and  poor. 
24* 


THE   HOMEWARD   BOUND. 

SLOWLY  he  paced  the  vessel's  whitened  deck, 

While  thoughts  of  hours,  and  days,  and  scenes  long  past, 

Brought  forth  from  fountains  well-nigh  dry  a  tear  : 

For  in  imagination  he  could  see 

Himself  a  tiny  boy,  in  childish  sport 

Upon  a  river's  bank,  quite  near  his  home, 

Chasing  the  butterfly,  whose  gaudy  dress 

Lured  him  away,  till,  wearied  with  the  chase, 

Upon  some  mossy  stone  he  sat  him  down  ; 

Or,  in  some  rippling  brook,  beneath  the  shade 

Of  some  tall  oak,  he  bathed  his  parched  brow  ; 

Then  np  he  sprang,  retraced  his  wandering  steps, 

Yet  heedless  ran,  and  could  not  leave  his  play. 

And  since  that  day  what  scenes  had  he  passed  through , 

What  trials  met,  what  sights  his  eyes  beheld  ! 

Beneath  the  burning  skies  of  torrid  zones, 

On  frozen  banks  of  Nova  Zembla's  coast, 

Or  the  more  fertile  climes  of  Italy  ; 

There,  where  the  luscious  grape  in  fulness  hangs, 

And  fields  of  roses  yield  a  rich  perfume  ; 

'Mid  orange-groves  whence  sweetest  odors  rise, 

'Neath  branches  burdened  with  their  fragrant  fruit, 

Forth  he  had  wandered. 

Mark  the  semblance  now  ! 
For  much  there  is  between  his  childish  course 
Upon  the  river's  bank  and  his  later 
Wanderings.     Then,  he  chased  the  butterfly.    Now, 
His  inclination  led  to  a  pursuit 
Mure  bold,  adventurous,  and  far  more  grand. 
Ambition  filled  his  soul.     Sometimes  he  ran 


THE    POOR    OF   EARTH.  283 

In  vain  ;  and  so  it  was  in  boyhood's  days  ; 
And  thus  't  is  plainly  seen  that  childhood  hours 
Are  but  an  index  of  our  future  life, 
And  life  an  index  of  that  yet  to  come. 

As  on  the  vessel  swept,  a  tear  would  'scape 
Forth  from  its  hidden  cell,  and  trickle  down 
The  sailor's  deeply-furrowed  cheek,  to  bathe 
Those  recollections  with  the  dew  of  Thought ! 

Some  deem  it  weak  to  weep.     Away  the  thought ! 

It  is  not  weakness  when  Affection's  fount 

O'erflows  its  borders,  and  to  man  displays 

The  feelings  that  its  powers  cannot  conceal. 

It  is  not  weakness  when  our  feeble  words 

Find  utterance  only  in  our  flowing  tears. 

Call  not  such  language  "  weakness  "  !    "Worlds  may  laugh, 

Yet  know  no  joy  like  that  which  often  flows 

In  silent  tears. 

As  nearer  drew  the  seaman  to  his  home, 

As  in  the  distance  first  he  saw  the  spot 

"Where  childhood's  hours  in  happiness  were  spent, 

His  slow  pace  quickened  to  a  faster  walk, 

And,  had  he  had  the  power,  he  'd  walked  the  waves, 

And  bravely  dashed  the  intrusive  spray  aside, 

To  reach  the  much-loved  spot  more  rapidly 

Than  wind  and  tide  urged  on  his  noble  bark. 


THE  POOR  OF  EARTH 

I  'VE  often  wondered,  as  I  've  sat 
Within  mine  own  loved  home, 

And  thought  of  those,  my  fellow-men, 
Who  houseless,  homeless,  roam  ; 


284  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

That  one  upon  this  earth  is  found 

Whose  heart  good  promptings  smother ; 

And  will  not  share  his  wealth  with  him 
Who  is  his  poorer  brother ! 

I  've  often  wondered,  as  I  've  walked 

Amid  life's  busy  throng, 
And  seen  my  fellows  who  have  been 

By  Fortune  helped  along, 
That  they  who  bask  in  its  bright  rays 

No  tear  of  pity  shed 
On  him  who  doth  no  "  fortune  "  seek, 

But  asks  a  crust  of  bread ! 

I  've  seen  the  gilded  temple  raised, 

The  aspirant  of  fame 
Ascend  the  altar's  sacrqd  steps, 

To  preach  a  Saviour's  name, 
And  wondered,  as  I  stood  and  gazed 

At  those  rich-cushioned  pews, 
Where  he  who  bears  the  poor  man's  fate 

Might  hear  Salvation's  news. 

I  've  walked  within  the  church-yard's  walls, 

With  holy  dread  and  fear, 
And  on  its  marble  tablets  read 

"  None  but  the  rich  lie  here." 
I  've  wandered  till  I  came  upon 

A  heap  of  moss-grown  stones, 
And  some  one  whispered  in  mine  ear, 

"  Here  rest  the  poor  man's  bones." 

My  spirit  wandered  on,  until 

It  left  the  scenes  of  earth  ; 
Until  I  stood  with  those  who  'd  passed 

Through  death,  the  second  birth. 
And  I  inquired,  with  holy  awe, 

"  Who  are  they  within  this  fold, 
Who  seem  to  be  Heaven's  favorites, 

And  wear  those  crowns  of  gold  ?  " 


IF   I   DON'T,    OTHERS  WILL.  285 

Then  a  being  came  unto  me, 

One  of  angelic  birth, 
And  in  most  heavenly  accents  said, 

"  Those  were  the  poor  of  earth." 
Then  from  my  dream  I  woke,  but 

Will  ne'er  forget  its  worth  ; 
For  ever  since  that  vision 

I  have  loved  "  the  poor  of  earth." 

And  when  I  see  them  toiling  on 

To  earn  their  daily  bread, 
And  dire  oppression  crush  them  down, 

Till  every  joy  hath  fled,  — 
I  mind  me  of  that  better  world, 

And  of  that  heavenly  fold, 
Where  every  crown  of  thorns  gives  place 

Unto  a'  crown  of  gold. 


IF    I    DON'T,    OTHERS    WILL. 

"  IF  I  don't  make  it,  others  will ; 

So  I  '11  keep  up  my  death-drugged  still. 

Come,  Zir>,  my  boy,  pile  on  the  wood, 

And  make  it  blaze  as  blaze  it  should  ; 

For  I  do  heartily  love  to  see 

The  flames  dance  round  it  merrily  ! 

"  Hogsheads,  you  want?  —  well,  order  them  made  ; 

The  maker  will  take  his  pay  in  trade. 

If,  at  the  first,  he  will  not  consent, 

Treat  him  with  wine  till  his  wits  are  spent ; 

Then,  when  his  reason  is  gone,  you  know 

Whate'er  we  want  from  his  hands  will  flow  ! 

"  Ah,  what  do  you  say  ?  — '  that  won't  be  fair '  ? 
You  're  conscientious,  I  do  declare  ! 
/  thought  so  once,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
But  since  I  have  been  in  this  employ 


286  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

I  've  practised  it,  and  many  a  trick, 

By  the  advice  of  my  friend,  Old  Nick. 

/  thought  't  was  wrong  till  he  hushed  my  fears 

With  derisive  looks,  and  taunts,  and  jeers, 

And  solemnly  said  to  rue,  '  My  Bill, 

If  you  don't  do  it,  some  others  will !  ' 

"  If  I  don't  sell  it,  some  others  will ; 

So  bottles,  and  pitchers,  and  muga  I  '11  fill. 

When  trembling  child,  who  is  sent,  shall  come, 

Shivering  with  cold,  and  ask  for  rum 

(Yet  fearing  to  raise  its  wet  eyes  up) , 

I  '11  measure  it  out  in  its  broken  cup  ! 

"  Ah !  what  do  you  say  ?  — '  the  child  wants  bread  '  ? 

Well,  't  is  n't  my  duty  to  see  it  fed  ; 

If  the  parents  will  send  to  me  to  buy, 

Do  you  think.  I  'd  let  the  chance  go  by 

To  get  me  gain  ?    O,  I  'm  no  such  fool ; 

That  is  not  taught  in  the  world's  wide  school ! 

"  When  the  old  man  comes  with  nervous  gait, 
Loving,  yet  cursing  his  hapless  fate, 
Though  children  and  wife  and  friends  may  meet, 
And  me  with  tears  and  with  sighs  entreat 
Not  to  sell  him  that  which  will  be  his  death, 
I  '11  hear  what  the  man  with  money^aith  ; 
If  he  asks  for  rum  and  shows  the  gold, 
I  '11  deal  it  forth,  and  it  shall  be  sold  ! 

"  Ah  !  do  you  say,  '  I  should  heed  the  cries 
Of  weeping  friends  that  around  mo  rise  '  ? 
May  be  you  think  so  ;  I  tell  you  what,  — 
I  've  a  rule  which  proves  that  I  should  not ; 
For,  know  you,  though  the  poison  kill, 
If  I  don't  sell  it,  some  others  will !  " 


A  strange  fatality  came  on  all  men, 

Who  met  upon  a  mountain's  rocky  side  ; 

They  had  been  sane  and  happy  until  then, 
But  then  on  earth  they  wished  not  to  abide. 


IF  I   DON'T,    OTHEKS   WILL.  287 

The  sun  shone  brightly,  but  it  had  no  charm  ; 

The  soft  winds  blew,  but  them  did  not  elate  ; 
They  seemed  to  think  all  joined  to  do  them  harm, 

And  urge  them  onward  to  a  dreadful  fate. 
I  did  say  "  all  men,"  yet  there  were  a  few 

"Who  kept  their  reason  well,— yet,  weak,  what  could  they  do? 

The  men  rushed  onward  to  the  jagged  rocks, 

Then  plunged  like  madmen  in  their  madness  o'er  ; 
From  peak  to  peak  they  scared  the  feathered  flocks, 

And  far  below  lay  weltering  in  their  gore. 
The  sane  men  wondered,  trembled,  and  they  strove 

To  stay  the  furies  ;  but  they  could  not  do  it. 
Whate'er  they  did,  however  fenced  the  drove, 

The  men  would  spring  the  bounds  or  else  break  through  it, 
And  o'er  the  frightful  precipice  they  leaped, 

Till  rock  and  tree  seemed  in  their  red  blood  steeped. 

One  of  the  sane  men  was  a  great  distiller 

And  one  sold  .liquors  in  a  famous  city  ; 
And,  by  the  way,  one  was  an  honest  miller, 

Who  looked  on  both  their  trades  in  wrath  and  pity. 
This  good  "  Honestus  "  spoke  to  them,  and  said, 

"  You  'd  better  jump  ;  if  you  don't,  others  will." 
Each  took  his  meaning,  yet  each  shook  his  head. 

"That is  no  reason  we  ourselves  should  kill," 
Said  they,  while  very  stupid-brained  they  seemed, 

As  though  they  of  the  miller's  meaning  never  dreamed. 


NOT  MADE  FOR  AN  EDITOR. 

BEING   A  TRUE   ACCOUNT   OF  AN   INCIDENT   IN  THE  HISTORY 
OF   THE   STUBBS   FAMILY. 

MR.  and  MRS.  STUBBS  were  seated  at  the  side  of  a  red-hot 
cylinder  stove.  On  one  side,  upon  the  floor,  a  small  black- 
and-white  dog  lay  very  composedly  baking  himself;  on  the 
other,  an  old  brown  cat  was,  in  as  undisturbed  a  manner, 
doing  the  same.  The  warmth  that  existed  between  them 
was  proof  positive  that  they  had  not  grown  cold  towards  each 
other,  though  the  distance  between  them  might  lead  one  to 
suppose  they  had. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  the  bust  of  a  man,  whose 
only  existence  was  in  the  imagination  of  a  miserable  ship- 
carver,  who,  in  his  endeavors  to  breathe  life  into  his  block, 
came  near  breathing  life  out  of  himself,  by  sitting  up  late  at 
night  at  his  task.  In  the  other  hung  a  crook-necked  squash, 
festooned  with  wreaths  of  spider-webs.  Above  the  mantel 
piece  was  suspended  a  painting  representing  a  feat  performed 
by  a  certain  dog,  of  destroying  one  hundred  rats  in  eight 
minutes.  The  frame  in  which  this  gem  of  art  was  placed  was 
once  gilt,  but,  at  the  time  to  which  we  refer,  was  covered 
with  the  dust  of  ages. 

Mr.  Stubbs  poked  the  fire.  Mrs.  Stubbs  poked  the  dog,  when 
suddenly  the  door  flew  open,  and  their  son  entered  with  black 
ened  eyes,  bloody  hands,  bruised  face  and  dirty  clothes,  the 
most  belligerent-looking  creature  this  side  of  the  ' '  Rio 
Grande." 


NOT    MADE    FOR   AN    EDITOR.  289 

"  My  voice  a'nt  still  for  war,  it 's  loud  for  war,"  he  said, 
as,  with  a  braggadocia  sort  of  air,  he  threw  his  cap  at  the 
dog,  who  clenched  it  between  his  teeth,  shook  it  nearly  to 
tatters,  and  then  passed  it  over  to  the  cat. 

"What's    the    matter   now.   Jake?"    said  Mrs.   Stubbs. . 
"  Always    in  trouble. —  fights  and  broils  seem  to  be  your 
element      I  don't  know,  Jake,   what  will  become  of  you, 
if  you  go  on   at  this  rate.     What  say  you,  father?  " 

Mr.  Stubbs  threw  down  the  poker,  and  casting  a  glance  first 
at  his  hopeful  son,  and  then  at  his  hoping  wife,  replied  that 
Jake  was  an  ignorant,  pugnacious,  good-for-nothing  scamp, 
and  never  would  come  to  anything,  unless  to  a  rope's  end. 

"  0,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  "  said  his  wife.  "  You  know  it 's 
nat'ral." 

"  Nat'ral !  "  shouted  the  father  ;  '-then  it's  ten  times 
worse  —  the  harder  then  to  rid  him  of  his  quarrelsome 
habits.  But  I'  've  an  idea,"  said  he,  his  face  brightening  up 
at  the  thought,  as  though  he  had  clenched  and  made  it  fast 
and  sure. 

The  mother  started  as  by  an  electric  shock.  The  boy, 
who  had  retired  into  one  corner  in  a  sullen  mood,  freshened 
up,  and  looked  at  his  father.  The  ship-carver's  fancy  sketch 
brightened  up  also ;  but  not  of  its  own  free  will,  for  the  force 
with  which  Mr.  Stubbs  brought  his  hand  in  contact  with  the 
table  caused  the  dirty  veil  to  fall  from  the  bust-cr's  face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Stubbs,  with  much  animation. 

"  Why,  my  dear  woman,  as  we  can  do  nothing  with  him, 
U'C  :ll  make  him  an  editor." 

The  old  lady  inquired  what  that  was ;  and,  being  informed, 
expressed  doubts  as  to  his  ability. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  he  cannot  write  distinctly." 

"What  of  that?  —  let  him  write  with  the  scissors  and 
paste-pot.     Let  him  learn  ;   many  know  a  great  deal  more 
after  having  learned." 
25 


290  TOWN  AND  <  orvruv. 

"  But  ho  must  have  some  originality  in  his  paper/' said 
Mrs.  Stubbs,  who,  it  seemed,  did  not  fall  in  with  the  general 
opinion  that  '•'•  any  one  can  edit  a  paper." 

"Never  fear  that,"  said  Mr.  Stubbs;  "he '11  conduct 
anything  he  takes  hold  of,  rather  than  have  that  conduct 
him.  I'll  tell  you  what,  old  woman,  Jake  shall  be  an  edi 
tor,  whether  he  can  write  a  line  of  editorial  or  not.  Jake, 
come  here." 

Jake,  who  had  nearly  forgotten  his  fight,  was  elated  at 
the  proposition  of  his  father,  and,  being  asked  whether,  'in 
his  opinion,  he  could  conduct  a  paper  with  ability,  original 
ity  and  success,  replied,  in  the  slang  phrase  of  the  day.  that 
he  "  could  n't  do  anything  else,"  at  the  same  time  clench 
ing  his  fist,  as  though  to  convince  his  sire  that  he  could  do 
something  else,  notwithstanding. 

"  As  I  have  never  asked  you  any  question  relative  to  pub 
lic  affairs,  and  as  the  people  of  this  generation  are  getting  to 
be  wise,  I  deem  it  right  that  I  should  ask  you  a  few  ques 
tions  before  endeavoring  to  obtain  a  situation.  Now,  Jake. 
who  is  the  President  of  the  United  States'?  " 

"  General  George  Washington,"  replied  the  intelligent 
lad,  or  rather  young  man ;  for,  though  he  indulged  in  many 
boyish  tricks,  he  was  about  twenty  years  of  age,  a  short, 
dull-looking  member  of  the  "  great  unwashed."  The  father 
intimated  that  he  was  mistaken  ;  the  son  persisted  in  saying 
that  he  was  not. 

"  Never  mind  the  catechizer,"  said  Jake ;  "  I  '11  conduct 
a  newspaper,  I  will,  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stubbs  never  see  the 
day  I  could  n't  conduct  anything." 

"That's  bright,"  said  Mrs.  Stubbs;  "he  possesses  more 
talent  than  I  was  aware  of;  he  '11  make  an  editor." 

"An'  he  sliaU,''  said  the  father,  resolutely. 

The  clock  struck  nine,  which  was  the  signal  for  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stubbs  to  retire,  and  they  did  so.  No  sooner  had  they 


NOT   MADE    FOR   AX    EDITOR.  291' 

» 

left  than  their  dutiful   son  mounted  the  table,  and.  takin^ 

'  i  O 

down  the  fancy  bust,  pulled  the  dog  by  the  tail  to  awake 
him,  and  set  him  barking  at  it.  The  cat  must  have  her  part 
in  the  tragedy,  so  Jake  thought ;  and,  pulling  her  by  the 
tail,  she  was  soon  on  the  field  of  action. 

"Now,  sist-a-boy,  Tozer;  give  her  an  editorial,"  said 
he ;  and,  as  dog  and  cat  had  been  through  the  same  perform 
ance  before,  they  acted  their  parts  in  manner  suiting.  The 
dog  barked,  the  cat  snapped  and  snarled,  and  Jake  Stubbs 
stood  by  rubbing  his  hands  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  of  delight. 


It  is  needless  for  us  to  relate  the  many  curious  adventures 
Mr.  Stubbs  met  with  Avhilst  searching  for  a  situation  for 
Jake. 

His  endeavors  to  find  a  situation  such  as  he  wanted  were, 
for  a  long  time,  ineffectual.  At  length  he  blundered  into  a 
small  printing-office,  where  three  men  and  a  boy  were  test 
ing  the  merits  of  half  a  dozen  doughnuts,  and  a  bottle  of 
root  beer. 

Mr.  Stubbs  was  very  sorry  to  disturb  them.  When  he  men 
tioned  his  errand,  one  of  the  men  —  a  tall  fellow,  with  check 
shirt  and  green  apron  —  said  that  he  had,  for  a  long  time, 
contemplated  starting  a  paper,  but,  as  he  was  not  capable  of 
editing  one,  he  had  not  carried  out  his  intention.  The  prin 
cipal  reason  why  he  had  not  published  was,  he  was  poor ; 
business  had  not  prospered  in  his  hands,  and  an  outlay  of 
two  thousand  dollars  would  be  needed  to  commence  and  con 
tinue  the  paper. 

"Very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Stubbs,  "that  is  a  large  sum;  but, 
if  there  is  no  doubt  of  its  being  returned,  I  might  think  of 
loaning  it  to  you,  for  the  sake  of  getting  my  talented  son  into 
business." 

"Not  the  least  doubt,  not  the  least,"  replied  Mr.  Pica; 
and  he  so  inflamed  the  imagination  of  Mr.  Stubbs,  that,  strange 


292  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

as  it  may  seem  to  the  cautious  reader,  he  wrote  a  check  for 
the  amount,  merely  taking  the  unendorsed  note  of  Mr.  Pica 
as  security ;  then,  hastening  home,  he  told  Mrs.  Stubbs  to 
brush  up  the  boy,  for  he  was  an  editor. 

***** 

Behold,  now,  Mr.  Jake  Stubbs  in  a  little  room  up  three 
pair  of  stairs,  preparing  "copy"  for  the  first  number  of 
"The  Peg  Top,  or  the  Buzz  of  the  Nation."  He  hasn't 
got  black  eyes  now ;  all  the  blackness  of  his  person,  if  not 
of  his  character,  has  settled  in  his  fingers,  and  they  are 
black  with  ink.  Not  all  settled,  for  a  few  daubs  of  the 
"blood  of  the  world,"  as  the  dark  fluid  Las  been  called, 
were  to  be  seen  on  his  forehead,  having  passed  there  from 
his  fingers,  when  leaning  upon  them  in  a  pensive  mood, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  bring  up  thoughts  from  the  mighty 
depths  of  his  intellect, —  so  mighty,  in  fact,  that  his  thoughts 
were  kept  there,  and  refused  to  come  up. 

Mr.  Jake  Stubbs  had  been  cutting  and  pasting  all  day, 
when,  thinking  it  a  little  too  severe  to  inflict  further  duty 
upon  the  assistant  editor,  he  took  his  pen  in  liand,  resolved 
upon  writing  a  masterly  article  as  a  leader. 

A  sheet  of  blank  paper  had  kin  on  the  table  before  him 
for  nearly  an  hour.  He  would  sit  and  think.  Some  idea 
would  pop  into  his  head,  then  with  a  dash  would  the  pen  go 
into  the  ink,  but  before  he  could  get  his  pen  out  the  idea 
had  flown,  and  the  world  was  the  loser.  Then  he  threw 
himself  back  into  his  chair, — thought,  thought,  thought.  At 
length  Jake  obtained  the  mastery,  as  patience  and  perse 
verance  always  will,  and  the  pen  became  his  willing  slave, 
though  his  mind,  being  the  slave-driver,  did  not  hurry  it  on 
very  fast.  He  was  able  to  pen  a  few  words,  and  wrote  "  The 
war  with  Mexico — " 

Well,  he  had  got  so  far ;  that  was  very  original,  and  if 
he  never  wrote  anything  else,  would  stamp  him  a  man  of 


NOT    MADE    FOR    AX    EDITOR.  293 

talent.  Into  the  ink,  on  the  paper,  and  his  pen  wrote  the 
little  word  are.  "The  war  with  Mexico  are."  Ten  min 
utes  more  of  steady  thought,  and  three  more  words  brought 
him  to  a  full  stop.  "  The  war  with  Mexico  are  a  indisputa 
ble  fact."  That  last  but  one  was  a  long  word,  and  a  close 
observer  could  have  seen  his  head  expand  with  the  effort. 

•''  Copy,  sir,  copy  !"  shouted  the  printer's  boy,  as  he  stood 
with  his  arms  daubed  Avith  ink.  and  a  straw  hat  upon  his 
head  that  had  seen  service,  and  looked  old  enough  to  retire 
tuid  live  on  a  pension. 

'•Copy  what?"  inquired  the  editor,  who  began  to  feel 
indignant,  imagining  that  the  publisher  had  seen  his  labor 
to  write  an  article,  and  had  sent  him  word  to  copy  from 
some  paper. 

"Here,"  said  he,  "take  this  to  Mr.  Pica,  and  tell  him 
't  is  original,  and  gives  an  account  of  the  war  with  Mexico, 
with  news  up  to  this  date." 

The  boy  took  it,  trudged  up  stairs  with  two  lines  of  MS., 
and  the  editor  arose  and  walked  his  office,  as  though  his  labors 
were  o'er,  and  he  might  rest  and  see  some  mighty  spirit 
engrave  his  name  upon  the  scroll  of  fame. 

He  had  crossed  the  floor  half  a  dozen  times,  when  in  came 
the  same  youth,  shouting  "  Copy,  sir,  copy  !  " 

"  Copy  what  ?  "  shouted  Jake,  laying  hold  of  the  boy's' 
shirt-sleeve.     "  Tell  rue  what  you  want  copied  !  tell  me,  sir, 
or  I  will  shake  your  interiors  out  of  you  — " 

The  boy  was  small,  but  spunky.  His  education  had  been 
received  at  the  corners  of  the  streets.  He  had  never  taken 
lessons  of  a  professor,  but  he  had  practised  upon  a  number  of 
urchins  smaller  than  himself,  and  had  become  a  thoroughly 
proficient  and  expert  pugilist. 

It  was  not  for  Bill  Bite  to  be  roughly  handled  by  any  one, 
not  even  by  an  editor.  So  he  pushed  him  from  him,  and 
said. 

25* 


TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

".  I  want  copy  ;  that's  a  civil  question. —  I  want  a  civil 
answer." 

Jake's  organ  of  combativcncss  became  enlarged.  He 
sprang  at  the  boy,  grasped  him  by  the  waist,  and  would 
have  thrown  him  down  stairs,  had  not  a  movement  the  boy 
made  prevented  him. 

Bill's  arms  were  loose,  and.  nearing  the  table,  he  took 
the  inkstand  and  dashed  the  contents  into  the  face  of  his 
assailant. 

"  Murder  !  "  shouted  the  editor. 

"Copy!"  shouted  the  boy;  and  such  a  rumpus  was 
created,  that  up  came  Mr.  Pica,  saying  that  the  building 
was  so  shaken  that  an  article  in  type  on  the  subject  of 
"  Health  and  Diet"  suddenly  transformed  itself  into  "  pi." 

The  two  belligerents  were  parted  ;  the  editor  and  Master 
Bill  Bite  stood  at  extremes.  At  this  crisis  who  should  enter 
but  Mr.  Stubbs,  senior,  who,  seeing  his  son's  face  blackened 
with  ink,  inquired  the  cause  rather  indignantly:  at  which  Mr. 
Pica,  not  recognizing  in  the  indignant  inquirer  the  father  of 
the  "talented  editor,"  turned  suddenly  about  and  struck 
him  a  blow  in  the  face,  that  displaced  his  spectacles, 
knocked  off  his  white  hat  into  a  pond  of  ink,  and  made 
the  old  fellow  see  stars  amid  the  cobwebs  and  dust  of  the 
ceiling. 

The  son,  seeing  himself  again  at  liberty,  flew  at  the  boy, 
and  gave  him  "copy"  of  a  very  impressive  kind. 

NDown  from  the  shelves  came  dusty  papers  and  empty  bot 
tles,  whilst  up  from  the  printing-office  came  the  inmates,  to 
learn  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 

A  couple  of  police-officers  passing  at  the  time,  hearing 
the  noise,  entered,  and  one  of  them  taking  Mr.  Stubbs, 
senior,  and  the  other  Mr.  Stubbs,  junior,  bore  them  off  to 
the  lock-up. 


NOT   MADE    FOR   AN    EDITOR.  295 

This  affair  put  a  sudden  stop  to  "The  Buzz  of  the  Nation." 
The  first  number  never  made  its  appearance. 

Mr.  Pica,  having  obtained  the  amount  of  the  check,  went 
into  the  country  for  his  health,  and  has  not  been  heard  from 
since. 

Elder  Stubbs  and  Stubbs  the  younger  paid  a  fine  of  five 
dollars  each ;  and  Avhen  they  reached  home  and  related  to 
Mrs.  Stubbs  the  facts  in  the  case,  she  took  off  her  specta 
cles,  and,  after  a  few  moments'  sober  thought,  came  to  the 
sage  conclusion  that  her  son  Jake  was  not  made  for  an 
editor. 


HERE'S  TO  THE  HEART  THAT'S  EVER  BRIGHT. 

HERE  's  to  a  heart  that 's  ever  bright, 

Whatever  may  betide  it, 
Though  fortune  may  not  smile  aright, 

And  evil  is  beside  it  ; 
That  lets  the  world  go  smiling  on, 

But,  when  it  leans  to  sadness, 
Will  cheer  the  heart  of  every  one 

With  its  bright  smile  of  gladness  ! 

A  fig  for  those  who  always  sigh 

And  fear  an  ill  to-morrow  ; 
Who,  when  they  have  no  troubles  nigh, 

Will  countless  evils  borrow  ; 
Who  poison  every  cup  of  joy, 

By  throwing  in  a  bramble  ; 
And  every  hour  of  time  employ 

In  a  vexatious  scramble. 

What  though  the  heart  be  sometimes  sad  ! 

'T  is  better  not  to  show  it ; 
'Twill  only  chill  a  heart  that 's  glad, 

If  it  should  chance  to  know  it. 
So,  cheer  thec  uj>  if  evil  's  nigh, 

Droop  not  beneath  thy  sadness  ; 
If  sorrow  finds  tlioa  wilt  not  sigh, 

'T  will  leave  thy  heart  to  gladness. 


THE   RECOMPENSE    OF   GOODNESS.  297 


MORNING    BEAUTY.     . 

BRIGHTLY  now  on  every  hill 

The  sun's  first  rays  are  beaming,    " 
And  dew-drops  on  each  blade  of  grass 

Are  in  their  beauty  gleaming. 
O'er  every  hill  and  every  vale 

The  huntsman's  horn  is  sounding, 
And  gayly  o'er  each  brook  and  fence 

His  noble  steed  is  bounding. 

There  's  beauty  in  the  glorious  sun 

AVhen  high  mid  heaven  'tis  shining, 
There  's  beauty  in  the  forest  oak 

When  vines  are  round  it  twining  ; 
There  's  beauty  in  each  flower  that  blooms, 

Each  star  whose  light  is  glancing 
From  heaven  to  earth,  as  on  apace 

'T  is  noiselessly  advancing. 

Beauties  are  all  around  thy  path, 

And  gloriously  they  're  shining  ; 
Nature  hath  placed  them  everywhere, 

To  guard  men  from  repining. 
Yet  'mong  them  all  there  's  naught  more  fair, 

This  beauteous  earth  adorning, 
Than  the  bright  beauty  gathering  round 

The  early  hours  of  morning. 


THE  RECOMPENSE  OF  GOODNESS. 

WHEK  our  hours  shall  all  be  numbered, 

And  the  time  shall  come  to  die, 
When  the  tear  that  long  hath  slumbered 

Sparkles  in  the  watcher's  eye, 


298  TOWN    AND    COUNTivY. 

Shall  we  not  look  back  with  pleasure 
To  the  hour  when  sonic  lone  heart, 

Of  our  soul's  abundant  treasure, 
From  our  bounty  took  a  part  ? 

When  the  hand  of  death  is  resting 

On  the  friend  we  most  do  love, 
And  the  spirit  fast  is  hasting 

To  its  holy  home  above, 
Then  the  memory  of  each  favor 

We  have  given  will  to  us  be 
Like  a  full  and  holy  savor, 

Bearing  blessings  rich  and  free. 

O,  then,  brother,  let  thy  labor 

Be  to  do  good  while  you  live, 
And  to  every  friend  and  neighbor 

Some  kind  word  and  sweet  smile  give. 
Do  it,  all  thy  soul  revealing, 

And  within  your  soul  you  '11  know 
IIow  one  look  of  kindly  feeling 

Cause  the  tides  of  love  to  flow. 


BRIDAL    SONGS. 

TO   THE   WIFE. 

LET  a  smile  illume  thy  face, 
In  thy  joyous  hours  ; 

Look  of  sympathy  be  thine, 
When  the  darkness  lowers. 

lie  thou  lovest  inovest  where 
Many  trials  meet  him  ; 

Waiting  be  when  lie  returns, 
Lovingly  t>  greet  him. 


BRIDAL   SONGS.  299 

Though  without  the  world  be  cold, 

Be  it  thy  endeavor 
That  within  thy  home  is  known 

Happiness  forever. 


TO   THE   HUSBAND. 

WHATSOEVER  trials  rise, 
Tempting  thee  to  falter, 

Ne'er  forget  the  solemn  vowa 
Taken  at  the  altar. 

In  thy  hours  of  direst  grief, 
As  in  those  of  gladness, 

Minister  to  her  you  love, 
Dissipate  her  sadness. 

Be  to  cheer,  to  bless,  to  love, 
Always  your  endeavor ; 

Write  upon  your  heart  of  hearts 
Faithfulness  forever. 


THE   JUG  AFLOAT. 

"  WHAT  I  tell  thec,  captain,  is  sober  truth.  If  thee 
wishes  to  prosper,  thee  must  not  allow  thy  sailors  grog,  lest, 
when  at  sea,  they  become  tipsy,  and  thy  ship,  running  upon 
hidden  rocks,  shall  be  lost ;  or  else,  when  at  the  mast-head, 
giddiness  come  upon  them,  and,  falling,  thy  crew  shall  num 
ber  one  less." 

Thus  spake  a  good  old  Quaker,  a  native  of  the  city  of 
Penn.  Captain  Marlin  had  been  for  many  days  and  nights 
considering  whether  it  were  best  to  carry  a  complement  of 
wine  for  himself  and  friends,  and  grog  for  his  crew.  He 
had  that  morning  met  Simon  Prim,  and  asked  his  opinion, 
which  he  gave  as  above ;  yet  Captain  Marlin  seemed  unde 
termined.  He  felt  it  to  be  an  important  question,  and  he 
desired  to  come  to  a  right  conclusion. 

They  had  been  passing  up  Broadway ;  had  reached  the 
Trinity,  crossing  over  towards  Wall-street.  Sirnon.  with  his 
usual  gravity,  raised  his  hand,  and,  pointing  to  the  to\s'ering 
steeple  of  the  splendid  edifice,  said  * 

"  If  thou,  neighbor,  desired  to  ascend  yonder  spire,  think- 
est  thou  thou  wouldst  first  drink  of  thy  wine,  or  thy  grog  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Captain  Mariin. 

"  Then,"  continued  the  Quaker,  "  do  not  take  it  to  sea 
with  thee ;  for  thou  or  thy  men  mayest  be  called  to  a  spot 
as  high  as  yonder  pinnacle,  when  thee  little  thinkest  of  it." 

The  two  walked  down  Wall-street  without  a  word  from 
either,  till,  reaching  a  shipping-office.  Captain  Marlin  re- 


THE   JUG   AFLOAT.  301 

marked  that  he  had  business  within.  The  Quaker  very 
politely  bowed,  and  bade  him  take  heed  to  good  counsel,  and 
good-day. 

The  owner  of  the  vessel  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  read 
ing  the  shipping  news  in  the  Journal. 

"  Did  you  know,"  said  he,  as  his  captain  entered,  "  that 
Parvalance  &  Co.  have  lost  their  ship,  (  The  Dey  of  Algiers,' 
and  none  were  saved  but  the  cabin-boy,  and  he  half  dead 
when  found  ?  " 

"Indeed  not;  when  —  where  —  how  happened  it 7"  in 
quired  Captain  Marlin,  in  some  haste.  , 

.  "  On  a  voyage  from  Canton,  with  a  rich  cargo  of  silks, 
satins,  teas,  <fcc.  The  boy  says  that  the  men  had  drank  rather 
too  much,  and  were  stupidly  drunk, —  but  fudge  !  Captain 
Marlin,  you  know  enough  to  know  that  no  man  would  drink 
too  much  at  sea.  He  would  be  sure  to  keep  at  a  good  distance 
from  a  state  of  intoxication,  being  aware  that  much  was 
intrusted  to  his  care  which  he  could  not  well  manage  whilst 
in  such  a  state." 

<:  Perhaps  so,"  said  Captain  Marlin,  doubtingly.  "Mr. 
Granton,  this  touches  a  question  I  have  been  for  days  con 
sidering.  It  is,  whether  I  shall  allow  my  men  grog." 

"  Of  course,  of  course ! "  answered  the  ship-owner;  "nothing 
so  good  for  them  round  the  Cape.  You  know  the  winds  there, 
rather  tough  gales  and  heavy  seas.  Cold  water  there,  Mr. 
Marlin  !  Why,  rather  give  them  hot  coffee  with  ice  crumbled 
in  it,  or  carry  out  a  cask  of  ice-cream  to  refresh  them  !  Man 
alive,  do  you  think  they  could  live  on  such  vapor  ?  You 
talk  like  one  who  never  went  to  sea,  unless  to  see  a  cattle - 
show." 

Captain  Marlin  could  not  refrain  from  laughing  at  such 

reasoning,  yet  was  more  than  half  inclined  to  favor  it.     He 

was  fond  of  his  wine,  and  being,  as  such  folks  generally  are, 

of  a  good  disposition,  he  wished  to  see  all  men  enjoy  tbem- 

26 


302  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

selves,  especially  \vhen  at  sea.  He  wished  evil  to  no  man, 
and  had  he  thought  that  liquor  might  injure  any  of  his  crew, 
he  would  not  that  morning,  in  that  office,  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  to  have  it  on  board  the  "  Tangus." 

CHAPTER   II. 

On  a  bright,  clear  morning,  a  deeply-freighted  ship  started 
from  a  New  York  slip ;  a  fair  ^vind  bore  it  swiftly  down 
the  bay,  and  a  few  minutes'  sail  found  it  far  from  sight  of 
the  metropolis  of  the  Union.  Friends  had  taken  the  last 
glimpse  of  friends,  the  last  interchange  of  kindly  feelings 
had  passed,  and  deep  waters  now  separated  them.  It  was 
the  "  Tangus,"  Robert  Marlin  captain,  with  a  picked  crew, 
and  bound  for  the  coast  of  Sumatra.  Simon  Prim  shook 
his  head,  as  he  with  others  turned  and  walked  home.  "  'T  is 
a  pity  men  will  not  see  evil  and  flee  from  it,"  said  he,  and 
he  pulled  his  straight  coat-collar  up,  and  thrust  his  hands 
more  deeply  than  ever  into  his  pockets.  He  was  a  little 
startled  by  a  light  tap  upon  the  shoulder,  and  quite  a  happy 
voice  exclaiming,  "  Why,  Mr.  Prim,  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  Verily,  neighbor,  thou  didst  move  me;  but  I  was  think 
ing  so  deeply  of  Captain  Marlin  and  his  success,  that  no 
wonder  thy  light  touch  should  do  so." 

"  But  what  of  him,  Prim  1 " 

"His  ship,  the  Tangus,  has  just  left,  bound  on  a  long 
voyage,  and  with  a  quantity  of  deadly  poison  on  board,  with 
which  to  refresh  the  crew.  I  tell  thee,  neighbor,  I  have 
fears  for  the  result.  The  jug  may  possibly  stand  still  when 
on  land,  but  when  it 's  afloat  it 's  rather  unsteady." 

"  Very  true,  but  you  seem  to  express  unusual  anxiety  in 
regard  to  Captain  Marlin  and  his  good  ship ;  thousands  have 
been  just  as  imprudent." 

"  But  not  in  these  days  of  light  and  knowledge,  friend. 
There  have  been  enough  sad  examples  to  warn  men  not  to 


THE    JUG   AFLOAT.  303 

trifle  on  such  subjects.  Twenty  years  ago  I  drank.  We 
had  our  whiskey  at  our  funerals  and  our  weddings.  I  have 
seen  chief  mourners  staggering  over  the  grave,  and  the  bride 
groom  half  drunk  at  the  altar ;  but  times  are  changed  now, 
and  thank  God  for  the  good  that  has  been  effected  by  this 
'  reformation !  " 

"  You  speak  true,  Simon;  and  I  wonder  Captain  Marlin 
could,  if  he  considered  the  evils  brought  about  by  intoxicat 
ing  drink,  carry  it  to  sea  with  him." 

"I  told  him  all  as  I  tell  it  to  thee,  friend  Jones.  He 
asked  my  opinion,  and  I  gave  it  him,  yet  it  seems  he  thought 
little  of  it.  Good-day,  neighbor;  I  have  business  with  a 
friend  at  the  '  Croton,'  good-day;"  and,  saying  this,  Mr. 
Prim  walked  up  a  bye  street. 

Jones  walked  on,  and  thought  considerable  of  the  Quaker's 
last  words.  His  mind  that  day  continually  ran  upon  the 
subject.  Indeed,  he  seemed  unable  to  think  of  anything  else 
but  of  a  jug  afloat,  and  at  night  spoke  of  it  to  his  wife. 

The  wife  of  Captain  Marlin  had  that  day  called  upon  Mrs. 
Jones,  and,  although  her  husband  had  scarcely  got  out  of 
sight,  looked  with  pleasure  to  the  day  of  his  return,  and 
already  anticipated  the  joyous  occasion.  There  is  as  much 
pleasure  in  anticipation  as  in  realization,  it  is  often  said,  and 
there  is  much  truth  in  the  saying.  We  enjoy  the  thought 
of  the  near  approach  of  some  wished  for  day,  but  when  it 
arrives  we  seem  to  have  enjoyed  it  all  before  it  came. 

Mrs.  Jones  was  far  from  thinking  it  wrong  in  Captain 
Marlin  that  he  carried  liquor  with  him  on  his  voyage,  and 
gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  the  vessel  was  as  safe  as  it  could 
possibly  be  without  it. 

"  Remember  what  I  say,  that  is  a  doomed  ship,"  said  Mr. 
Jones,  after  some  conversation  on  the  subject. 

"  You  are  no  prophet,  my  dear,"  said  his  wife,  "neither 
am  I  a  prophetess ;  but  I  will  predict  a  pleasant  voyage  and 


304  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

• 

safe  return  to  the  Tangus."     With  such  opposite  sentiments 
expressed,  they  retired. 

CHAPTER     III. 

Insensible  to  all  that  is  beautiful  in  nature,  and  grand  and 
majestic  in  the  works  of  creation,  must  the  heart  of  that  man 
be  Avho  can  see  no  beauty,  grandeur,  or  majesty,  in  the 
mighty  abyss  of  waters,  rolling  on  in  their  strength  —  no\v 
towering  like  some  vast  mountain,  and  piling  wave  Upon  wave, 
till,  like  pyramids  dancing  on  pyramids,  their  tops  seem  to 
reach  the  sky  :  then  sinking  as  deep  as  it  had  before  risen, 
and  again  mounting  up  to  heaven.  There  ?s  beauty  in  such 
a  scene,  and  no  less  when,  calm  and  unruffled,  the  setting  sun 
sinks  beneath  the  horizon,  and  for  miles  and  miles  leaves  its 
long,  glistening  track  upon  the  unmoved  waters. 

'T  was  so  when  the  crew  of  the  "  Tangus  "  were  assembled 
upon  the  deck  of  that  noble  ship.  The  day  previous  had 
been  one  of  hard  labor  ;  the  vessel  had  bravely  withstood  the 
storm,  and  seemed  now  to  be  resting  after  the  contest.  Nof 
a  ripple  was  to  be  seen.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  was 
seen  the  same  beautiful  stillness.  So  with  the  crew  :  they 
were  resting,  though  not  in  drowsy  slumberings. 

"  I  say  what,  Bill,"  remarked  one,  "  '  An  honest  man  'a 
the  noblest  work  of  God,'  somebody  says,  and  that 's  our 
captain,  every  inch,  from  stem  to  stern,  as  honest  :is  (Quaker 
Prim,  of  Gotham." 

"Ay,  ay,  Jack,"  said  another:  "and  did  you  hear  how 
that  same  Prim  tried  to  induce  Captain  Marlin  to  deprive  us 
of  our  rights  ?  " 

"  Grog,  you  mean  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay." 

"No;  but  how  was  it?" 


THE   JUG   AFLOAT.  305 

"  Arrah,   the  dirty  spalpeen  he  was,  if  he  was  afther  a' 
trying  for  to  do  that  —  the  divil  —  " 

"  Will  Mr.  McFusee  wait?  By  the  way,  Jack,  he,  Prim, 
got  him  by  the  button,  and  began  to  pour  into  his  ears  a 
long  tirade  against  a  man's  enjoying  himself,  and,  by  the  aid 
of  thee,  thy,  and  thou,  half  convinced  the  old  fellow  that  he 
must  give  up  all,  and  live  on  ice-water  and  ship-bread." 


"  Ay,  ay,  you  know  Captain  Marlin,  He  always  looks  at 
both  sides,  then  balances  both,  as  it  were,  on  the  point  of  a 
needle,  and  decides,  as  Squire  Saltfish  used  to  say,  'cording 
to  law  and  evidence." 

"  By  the  powers,  he  's  a  man,  ivery  inch,  from  the  crown 
of  his  hat  to  the  soles  of  his  shoes,  he  is." 

"Mr.  McFusee,  will  you  keep  still?"  said  Mr.  Boyden, 
the  narrator.  Mr.  McFusee  signified  that  he  would. 

"  Well,  he  balanced  this  question,  and  the  evidence  against 
flew  up  as  't  were  a  feather  ;  but  down  went  the  evidence  for, 
and  he  concluded  to  deal  every  man  his  grog  in  due  season." 

"  That's  the  captain,  all  over,"  remarked  Jack. 

As  we  before  said,  their  labors  the  day  previous  were  great, 
and,  as  a  dead  calm  had  set  in,  and  the  vessel  did  not  even 
float  lazily  along,  but  remained  almost  motionless,  —  not  like 
a  thing  of  life,  but  like  a  thing  lifeless,  —  the  captain  ordered 
the  crew  each^  a  can  of  liquor,  and  now  they  sat,  each  with 
his  measure  of  grog,  relating  stories  of  the  past,  and  surmises 
of  the  future.  • 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Jack  Paragon,  "  these  temperance 
folks  are  the  most  foolish  set  of  reformers  myself  in  particu 
lar,  and  the  United  States,  Texas,  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
in  general,  ever  saw." 

"Even  so,"  remarked  Mr.  Boyden,  "but  they  do  some  good. 
'  Give  the  devil  his  due,'  is  an  old  saw,  but  none  the  less 
true  for  that.  There  's  Peter  Porper,  once  a  regular  soaker, 
26* 


306  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

•  always  said  his  'plaints  were  roomatic,  —  rum -attic,  I  reckon, 
however,  for  he  used  to  live  up  twelve  pairs  of  stairs. —  he  and 
the  man  in  the  moon  were  next-door  neighbors  ;  they  used  to 
smoke  together,  and  the  jolly  times  they  passed  were  never 
recorded,  for  there  were  no  newpapers  in  those  dark  ages, 
and  the  people  were  as  ignorant  as  crows.  Well,  one  of  these 
temperance  folks  got  hold  of  him,  and  the  next  I  saw  of  him 
he  was  the  pet  of  the  nation  ;  loved  by  the  men,  caressed  by 
the  women  —  silver  pitchers  given  him  by  the  former,  and 
broadcloth  cloaks  by  the  latter." 

"  No  selfish  motives  in  keeping  temperate  !  "  said  Jack 
Rowlin,  ironically. 

"  Can't  say  ;  but  liquor  never  did  me  harm.  When  I  find 
it  does,  I  will  leave  off." 

"That's  the  doctrine  of  Father  Neptune  —  drink  and 
enjoy  life." 

"  Every  man  to  his  post !  "  shouted  the  captain,  as  he 
approached  from  the  quarter-deck.  Quick  to  obey,  they  were 
where  they  were  commanded  in  an  instant,  each  with  his  tin 
can  half  filled  with  liquor.  Captain  Marlin,  seeing  this, 
ordered  them  to  drink  their  grog  or  throw  it  overboard  ;  they 
chose  the  former  mode  of  disposing  of  it,  and  threw  their 
empty  cans  at  the  cook. 

In  the  distance  a  small  black  speck  was  descried. 

• 

CHAPTEK     IV. 

The  sun  had  set  in  clouds.  The  heavens  were  hung  in 
darkness.  Ever  and  anon  a  peal  of  thunder  echoed  above, 
a  flash  of  vivid  lightning  illumed  the  waters,  and  far  as  eye 
could  see  the  waters  tossed  high  their  whitened  crests.  The 
winds  blew  stormy,  and  now  heavy  drops  of  rain  fell  upon  the 
deck  of  the  "  Tangus."  "  Every  man  to  his  duty  !  "  shouted 
the  captain ;  but  the  captain's  voice  was  not  obeyed. 


THE    JUG   AFLOAT.  307 

Objects  at  two  feet  distance  could  not  be  seen.  Louder 
that  voice  was  heard.  "  Every  man  to  his  duty, —  save  the 
ship  !  " 

"  Captain,  what  is  my  duty  ?  "  inquired  the  cook. 

' :  I  appoint  you  under  officer.  Search  for  the  men,  and,  if 
they  are  not  all  washed  over,  tell  them  I  order  them  to  work. 
If  they  do  not  know  it,  tell  them  the  ship's  in  danger,  and 
they  must  work.;' 

The  storm  was  fast  increasing,  till,  at  length,  instead  of 
blackness,  one  sheet  of  livid  flame  clothed  the  heavens  above. 
Now  all  could  be  seen,  and  the  captain  busied  himself. 
But  two  of  the  crew  were  to  be  seen,  and  they  lay  as  senseless 
as  logs.  They  heeded  not  the  rage  of  the  storm.  The  ter 
rific  peals  of  thunder  awoke  them  not  —  they  were  dead 
drunk  ! 

By  the  time  the  storm  commenced,  the  liquor  they  had 
drank  began  to  have  its  effect.  Four  of  the  crew,  who  were 
usually  Avide  awake  —  that  is,  uncommonly  lively  —  when 
intoxicated,  had  unfortunately  fell  overboard,  and  were  lost. 

The  captain  had  now  food  for  reflection,  but  the  time  and 
place  were  not  for  such  musings. 

He  endeavored  to  arouse  them,  but  in  vain ;  so,  with  the 
aid  of  the  only  sober  man  aboard  besides  himself,  he  conveyed 
them  to  a  place  of  safety.  In  the  mean  time  the  ship  strained 
in  every  joint,  and  he  momentarily  expected  to  find  himself 
standing  on  its  wreck. 

The  waves  washed  the  deck,  and  everything  movable, 
cook-house  and  all,  went  by  the  board.  The-  only  hope  of 
safety  was  in  cutting  away  the  masts,  and  to  this  task  they 
diligently  applied  themselves.  All  night  the  captain  and 
cook  worked  hard,  and  when  morning  came  they  found  the 
storm  abating.  Soon  the  sun  shone  in  its  brightness ;  but 
what  a  scene  did  its  light  reveal!  The  once  stately  ship 


308  TOWN  AND    COUNTRY. 

dismasted ;  four  men,  including  the  mate  of  the  vessel,  lost, 
and  two  lying  insensible  in  the  cabin. 

It  was  not  strange  that  the  question  came  home  to  the 
mind  of  Captain  Marlin,  with  force,  "Is  it  right  to  carry 
liquor  for  a  ship's  crew?  "  He  need  ask  the  opinion  of  no 
one  ;  he  could  find  an  answer  in  the  scene  around  him. 

CHAPTER     V. 

"Then  thy  ship  has  put  in  for  repairs?"  said  Simon 
Prim,  as  he  entered  Gran  ton  &  Co.'s  office,  on  Wall-street. 

"  What  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Granton,  who  had  heard  nothing 
of  the  matter.  Simon,  pulling  a  paper  from  his  pocket,  read : 

"Loss  OF  LIFE  AT  SEA.  —  By  a  passenger  in  the  '  Sul 
tan,'  from ,  we  are  informed  that  the  ship  '  Tangus,'  from 

this  port,  bound  to  Sumatra,  and  owned  by  Messrs.  Gran- 
ton  &  Co.,  of  this  city,  put  in  at  that  place  in  a  dismasted 
condition. 

"  The  'Tangus'  had  been  three  weeks  out,  when,  in  a  gale, 
four  men  were,  washed  overboard.  The  remainder  of  her  crew 
being  insensible,  and  the  whole  duty  falling  upon  the  captain 
and  cook,  the^  with  great  difficulty  managed  the  ship.  It  is 
rumored  that  all  were  intoxicated.  This  is  the  seventh  case 
of  loss  at  sea,  caused  by  intemperance,  within  four  months. 
When  will  men  become  wise,  and  awake  to  their  own  interests 
on  this  topic?  " 

The  ship-owner  rapidly  paced  his  office.  "Can  it  be?" 
said  he  to  himself.  "  Can  it  be  ?  " 

"Give  thyself  no  trouble,  friend,"  said  Prim;  "what  is 
done  is  done,  and  can't  be  undone.  Thy  ship  is  not  lost, 
and  things  are  not  so  bad  as  they  might  be.  Look  to  the 
future,  and  mourn  not  over  the  past ;  and  remember  that  it  is 
very  dangerous  to  have  a  jug  afloat." 

These  few  words  somewhat  quieted  him,  yet  not  wholly. 


THE   JUG   AFLOAT.  309 

At  this  moment  the  wife  of  Captain  Marlin  entered.  Having 
heard  of  the  news,  she  came  to  learn  all  that  was  known 
respecting  it. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  after  relating  all  he  knew,  "  my  mind 
is  changed  on  the  question  we  some  time  since  discussed. 
Yes,  madam,  .my  mind  is  changed,  and  from  this  hour  I 
will  do  all  I  can  to  exterminate  the  practice  of  carrying  grog 
to  sea  for  the  crew.  And  I  tell  thee  what,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  friend  Prim,  who  stood  near  by,  "  I  tell  thee  what, 
thee  was  right  in  thy  predictions ;  and,  though  it  has  been  a 
dear  lesson  to  me,  I  have  learned  from  it  that  it  is  poor  policy 
that  puts  a  jug  afloat." 


GIVE,   AND   STAY  THEIR  MISERY, 

WOULD  ye  who  live  in  palace  halls, 

With  servants  round  to  wait, 
Know  aught  of  him  who,  craving,  falls 

Before  thine  outer  gate  ? 
Come  with  me  when  the  piercing  blast 

Is  whistling  wild  and  free, 
When  muffled  forms  are  hurrying  past, 

And  then  his  portion  see. 

Come  with  me  through  the  narrow  lanes 

To  dwellings  dark  and  damp, 
Where  poor  men  strive  to  ease  their  pains ; 

Where,  by  a  feeble  lamp, 
The  wearied,  widowed  mother  long 

Doth  busy  needle  ply, 
Whilst  at  her  feet  her  children  throng, 

And  for  a  morsel  cry. 

Come  with  me  thou  in  such  an  hour, 

To  such  a  place,  and  see 
That  He  who  gave  thee  wealth  gave  power 

To  stay  such  misery ! 
Come  with  me,  —  nor  with  empty  hand 

Ope  thou  the  poor  man's  door ; 
Come  with  the  produce  of  thy  land, 

And  thou  shalt  gather  more. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF  MAN.  313 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   MAN. 

YE  cannot  bind  the  spirit  down  ; 

It  is  a  thing  aa  free 
As  the  albatross-bird  that  wings 

Its  wild  course  o'er  the  sea. 

Go,  bind  the  lightning,  guide  the  sun, 

Chain  comets,  if  you  can  ; 
But  seek  not  with  thy  puny  strength 

To  bind  the  soul  of  man. 

Though  all  the  powers  of  earth  combine, 

And  all  their  strength  enroll, 
To  bind  man's  body  as  they  will, 

They  cannot  bind  his  soul. 

No  power  on  earth  can  hold  it  down, 

Or  bid  it  hither  stay, 
As  up  to  heaven  with  rapid  course 

It  tireless  wings  its  way. 

Time  is  too  limited  for  it, 

And  earth  is  not  its  clime  ; 
It  cannot  live  where  sound  the  words, 

"  There  is  an  end  to  time." 

It  seeks  an  endless,  boundless  sphere, 

In  which  to  freely  roam  ; 
Eternity  its  course  of  life, 

Infinity  its  home. 

There,  there  will  it  forever  live  ; 

And  there,  a  spirit  free, 
'T  will  range,  though  earth  may  pass  away, 

And  Time  no  longer  be. 


312  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 


PAUSE   AND   THINK. 

0  !  HOW  many  souls  are  sorrowing 

In  this  sunlit  world,  to-day, 
Because  Wrong,  heaven's  livery  borrowing, 

Leadeth  trusting  souls  astray  ; 
Because  men,  all  thoughtless  rushing, 

Dance  along  on  Error's  brink, 
And,  the  voice  of  conscience  hushing, 

Will  not  for  a  moment  think  ! 

'T  is  the  lack  of  thought  that  bringeth 

Man  to  where  he  needs  relief; 
'T  is  the  lack  of  thought  that  wringeth 

All  his  inner  self  with  grief. 
Would  he  give  a  moment's  thinking 

Ere  his  every  step  is  made, 
He  would  not  from  light  be  shrinking, 

Groping  on  in  Error's  shade  ! 

Think,  immortal !  thou  art  treading 

On  a  path  laid  thick  with  snares, 
Where  mischievous  minds  are  spreading 

Nets  to  catch  thce  unawares. 
Pause  and  think !  the  next  step  taken 

May  be  that  which  leads  to  death ; 
Rouse  thee !  let  thy  spirit  waken  ; 

List  to,  heed  the  word  it  saith  ! 

Think,  ere  thou  consent  to  squander 

Aught  of  time  in  useless  mirth  ; 
Think,  ere  thou  consent  to  wander, 

Disregarding  heaven-winged  truth. 
When  the  wine  in  beauty  shineth, 

When  the  tempter  bids  thee  drink, 
Ere'to  touch  thy  hand  im-lineth, 

Be  tbou  cautious  —  pause  and  think  ! 


PAUSE   AND   THINK.  313 

Think,  whatever  act  thou  doest ; 

Think,  whatever  word  is  spoke  ; 
Else  the  heart  of  friend  the  truest 

May  be  by  thee,  thoughtless,  broke. 
How  much  grief  had  been  prevented, 

If  man  ne'er  had  sought  to  shrink 
From  the  right :  —  to  naught  consented, 

Until  he  had  paused  to  think  ! 

27 


LITTLE    NELLY. 

MATILDA  was  a  fashionable  girl, —  a  young  lady,  perhaps, 
would  be  the  more  respectable  name  by  which  to  call  her.  £he 
had  been  reared  in  affluence.  She  had  never  known  a  want. 
She  had  had  wants,  but  she  did  not  know  it.  She  had 
wanted  many  things  that  make  a  lady's  life  indeed  a  life. 
But  Matilda  never  dreamt  of  such  things. 

It  was  n't  fashionable  to  love  the  outcast,  and  therefore 
she  bestowed  no  pitying  look  on  them.  It  was  n't  fashion 
able  to  give  a  few  pennies  even  to  a  poor,  lame  orphan  girl 
in  the  street.  So  she  pretended  not  to  have  noticed  the  plea 
of  little  Nelly,  who  had  accosted  her  during  her  morning 
rambles. 

"  Little  Nelly."  I  remember  how  she  looked  when  at 
twilight  she  sat  down  on  a  curb-stone  to  count  the  money. 
She  looked  sorrowful.  She  was,  indeed,  worthy  of  pity : 
but  little  she  got.  The  crowd  went  hurrying,  hustling  on  ; 
few  thoughts  came  down  to  little  Nelly,  on  the  curb-stone. 
It  had  been  a  gala  day.  Red  flags  had  flaunted  on  hi^h 
poles,  and  there  had  been  a  great  noise  of  drums  and  fifes, 
and  everybody  had  seemed  happy.  Why,  then,  should  sor 
row  come,  with  its  dark  lantern,  and  look  in  the  face  of  this 
little  girl  ? 

I  will  tell  you. 

There  was  a  poor  woman  whose  husband  had  been  killed 
in  Mexico.  She  lived  in  one  small  room  in  a  secluded  part 
of  the  city,  and  by  means  of  her  needle,  and  such  assistance 


I 


LITTLE 

v  Tvhich  t" 

life  imi< 

• 

.11.     It  was  i. 
i  few  perm  f>oor,  lame  01  ; 


She  v 


•Vhy,  thf 
uk  lantern,  tuxd  look  iu  tli^ 


e  husband  1- 1 

:D  one  sm: 


LITTLE   NELLY.  315 

as  was  given  to  her  daughter,  who  diligently  walked  the 
streets,  selling  apples,  she  managed  to  live  in  a  style  which 
she  denominated  "  comfortable."  Thus,  for  upwards  of  one 
year,  she  toiled  and  lived,  and  was  thankful  for  all  her  many 
blessings. 

But  sickness  came  ;  not  severe,  but  of  that  kind  that  bears 
its  victim  along  slowly  to  rest.  She  was  unable  to  do  much. 
She  did  not  wish  to  do  much ;  but  she  sat  day  by  day,  yea, 
night  by  night  often,  and  diligently  pursued  the  avocation 
that  brought  her  daily  bread. 

"Weeks  passed,  and  yet  she  was  ill.  One  morning,  she 
called  her  daughter  to  her  side,  and,  taking  her  hand  in  her 
own,  said  : 

"  Little  Nelly,  't  is  Independence  day,  to-day.  You  heard 
the  guns  fire,  and  the  bells  ring,  and  the  shouts  of  the  happy 
children,  this  morning,  before  you  arose.  I  watched  you  as 
you  lay  listening  to  all  these,  and  I  asked  myself,  Will  my 
little  Nelly  be  happy  ?  and  I  thought  I  heard  my  mother's 
voice :  —  she  died  long,  long  ago,  but  I  thought  I  heard  her 
voice  right  at  my  side,  saying,  'We  shall  all  be  happy  soon  ;' 
and  I  wept,  for  I  could  not  help  it. 

"  But  I  've  called  you  now,  Nelly,  to  tell  you  that  I  'm 
much  better  this  morning,  and  that,  if  you  can  get  twenty- 
five  cents  to-day,  we  will  have  a  happy  time  to-night." 

Little  Nelly  looked  happy  for  a  moment,  but  soon  a 
shadow  came  over  her  face  ;  for  she  could  not  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  her  mother  when  she  said  she  was  "  better," 
for  she  looked  more  feeble  than  she  had  ever  seen  her  since 
the  news  of  how  her  father  was  shot  in  the  face  at  Monterey 
was  told  her. 

But  she  tried  to  be  cheerful.  She  tried  to  smile,  but,  0, 
it  was  very  hard ;  and  she  got  her  mother's  breakfast,  and, 
having  cleared  the  things  away,  took  her  little  basket,  and 
her  mother's  purse,  and  went  out 


316  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  happy  day  without.  There  was  joy 
depicted  on  every  countenance,  and  the  general  happiness 
infused  some  of  its  spirit  into  the  heart  of  our  little  trader. 

She  seemed  almost  lost  in  the  great  crowd ;  and  there  were 
so  many  dealers  about,  and  so  many  that  presented  greater 
attractions  in  the  display  of  their  stock,  that  few  bought  of 
little  Nelly. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  had  sold  but  a  little, 
when  she  encountered  a  young  lady  gayly  dressed,  in  whose 
hand  was  prominently  displayed  a  bead  purse,  through  the 
interstices  of  which  the  gold  and  silver  glistened. 

Nelly  held  out  her  humble  purse,  in  which  no  beads  were 
wrought,  through  which  no  coin  glistened, —  she  held  it  up, 
and  ventured  to  ask,  in  pleasant  tones,  a  few  pennies  of  the 
lady.  But  not  a  penny  for  little  Nelly.  Not  even  a  look 
recognized  her  appeal,  but  costly,  flowing  robes  rushed  by, 
and  nearly  prostrated  her  ;  they  did  force  her  from  the  side 
walk  into  the  gutter. 

Go  on,  ye  proud  and  selfish  one  !  Go,  bend  the  knee  to 
Fashion's  altar,  and  ask  a  blessing  of  its  presiding  spirit ! 
Bestow  no  pitying  glance  on  honest  poverty ;  no  helping  hand 
to  the  weak  and  falling !  There  is  a  law  which  God  hath 
written  on  all  his  works,  proclaiming  justice,  and  giving  unto 
all  as  they  shall  ask  of  him.  Pass  on,  and  heed  not  that 
little  praying  hand;  but  remember  you  cannot  do  so  without 
asking  of  that  law  its  just  requital. 

Nelly  walked  on.  She  mingled  again  with  the  great  mass, 
and  twilight  came.  It  was  then  that  she  sat  down,  as  I 
have  before  stated,  to  count  her  money.  She  had  but  thir 
teen  cents.  All  day  she  had  sought  to  dispose  of  her  stock, 
that  she  might  carry  to  her  mother  the  sum  named,  with 
which  to  have  a  happy  time  at  home.  And  now  the  <l:iy  had 
gone ;  the  night  was  drawing  its  great  shadowy  cloak  about 


LITTLE    NELLY.  317 

the  earth,  and  Nelly  had  but  about  one  half  of  the  required 
sum.  What  should  she  do  1 

It  was  at  this  moment  I  met  her.  I  stooped  down,  and 
she  told  me  all  her  story;  —  told  me  all  her  sorrow, —  a 
great  sorrow  for  a  little  breast  like  hers.  I  made  up  the 
trifling  amount,  and,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  we  went 
together  towards  her  home. 

Reaching  the  house,  we  entered,  and  were  met  on  the 
stairs  by  an  old  lady,  who  whispered  in  my  ear,  "  Walk 
softly."  I  suspected  in  a  moment  the  reason  why  she  asked 
me  thus  to  walk.  She  then  led  the  way.  She  tried  to  keep 
back  the  little  girl,  but  she  could  not.  She  hurried  up  the 
stairs,  and  through  a  long,  dark  entry,  to  a  door,  which  she 
quickly  opened. 

Nelly  sprang  to  the  bed  on  which  lay  her  mother.  I 
heard  a  sigh  —  a  sob.  It  was  from  the  child.  The  mother 
spoke  in  a  tone  so  joyous  that  I  was  at  first  surprised  to  hear 
it  from  one  who,  it  was  supposed,  was  near  her  end.  But  I 
soon  found  it  was  no  matter  of  surprise. 

How  clear  and  fair  was  that  face  !  How  pleading  and 
eloquent  those  eyes,  as  they  turned,  in  all  their  full-orbed 
brightness,  upon  me,  as  I  approached  the  bedside  of  the  mother 
of  Nelly  !  There  were  needed  no  words  to  convey  to  my 
mind  the  thoughts  that  dwelt  within  that  soul,  whose  strength 
seemed  to  increase  as  that  of  the  body  diminished. 

With  one  of  her  pale  hands  she  took  mine  ;  with  the  other, 
that  of  her  daughter. 

"  Blessings  on  you  both  !  "  she  said.  "  Nelly,  my  dear 
Nelly,  my  faithful,  loving  Nelly,  I  am  much  better  than  I 
was ;  I  shall  soon  be  well,  and  what  a  happy  time  we  will 
have  to-night !  I  hear  that  voice  again  to-night,  Nelly. 
Don't  you  hear  it?  It  says,  '  We  s%all  all  be  happy  soon.' 
I  see  a  bright  star  above  your  head,  my  child ;  and  now  I 
see  my  mother.  She  is  all  bright  and  radiant,  and  there  is 
27* 


318  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

a  beauty  around  her  that  I  cannot  describe.  Nelly,  I  am 
better.  Why,  I  feel  quite  well." 

She  sprang  forward,  and,  with  her  hands  yet  clasping 
Nelly's  and  my  own,  she  stretched  her  arms  upward.  There 
was  a  bright  glow  of  indescribable  joy  upon  her  features. 
She  spoke  calmly,  sweetly  spoke.  "  We  shall  all  be  happy 

soon  —  happy  soon  —  happy "  then  fell  back  on  the 

pillow,  and  moved  no  more  —  spoke  not  again. 

She  was  indeed  happy.  But,  Nelly  —  she  was  sad.  For 
a  long  time  she  kept  her  hand  in  that  of  her  mother.  She 
at  length  removed  it,  and  fell  upon  the  floor,  beneath  the 
weight  of  her  new  sorrow.  Yet  it  was  but  for  a  moment. 
Suddenly  she  sprang  up,  as  if  imbued  with  angelic  hope  and 
peace.  We  were  surprised  to  see  the  change,  and  to  behold 
her  face  beam  with  so  much  joy,  and  hear  her  voice  lose  its 
sadness.  We  looked  forth  with  that  inner  sight  which,  on 
such  occasions,  seerns  quickened  to  our  sense,  and  could  see 
that  mother,  and  that  mother's  mother,  bending  over  that 
child,  and  raising  her  up  to  strength  and  hope,  and  a  living 
peace  and  joy. 

Nelly's  little  purse  lay  on  the  floor,  where  she  had  dropped 
it  when  she  came  in.  The  old  nurse  picked  it  up,  and  laid 
it  on  a  stand  beside  the  bed.  A  tear  stole  out  from  beneath 
the  eyelids  of  the  child  as  she  beheld  it,  and  thought  how  all 
day  she  had  worked  and  walked  to  get  the  little  sum  with 
which  her  mother  and  she  were  to  be  made  happy  on  that 
Independence  night.  I  called  her  to  me.  We  sat  down  and 
talked  over  the  past,  the  present  and  the  future,  and  I  was 
astonished  to  hear  the  language  which  her  pure  and  gentle, 
patient  soul  poured  forth. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  said,  "we  are  happy  to-night,  though 
you  think,  perhaps,  there  is  greater  cause  for  sorrow.  But 
mother  has  gone  from  all  these  toiling  scenes.  She  will 
work  no  more  all  the  long  day,  and  the  night  t  ear  a 


LITTLE    NELLY.  319 

shilling,  with  which  to  buy  our  daily  bread.  She  has  gone 
where  they  have  food  that  we  know  not  of;  and  she 's  happy 
to-night,  and,  sir,  we  shall  all  be  happy  soon.  We  shall  all 
go  up  there  to  live  amid  realities.  These  are  but  shadows 
here  of  those  great,  real  things  that  exist  there ;  and  I  some 
times  think,  when  sitting  amid  these  shadows,  that  it  will  be 
a  happy  time  when  we  leave  them,  and  walk  amid  more  sub 
stantial  things." 

Thus  she  talked  for  some  time. 

Having  rendered  such  assistance  as  I  could,  I  left.  The 
next  day  there  was  a  funeral,  and  little  Nelly  was  what 
they  called  "the  chief  mourner;"  yet  it  seemed  a  very 
inappropriate  name  for  one  whose  sorrow  was  so  cheerful. 
There  were  but  few  of  us  ivho  followed;  and,  when  we 
reached  the  grave,  and  the  face  of  the  earthly  form  was 
exposed  to  the  sunlight  for  the  last  time,  little  Nelly  sung 
the  following  lines,  which  I  had  hastily  penned  for  the  occa 
sion  : 

WE  SHALL  ALL  BE  HAPPY  SOON. 

Dry  our  tears  and  wipe  our  eyes ! 
Angel  friends  beyond  the  skies 
Open  wide  heaven's  shining  portal, 
Welcome  us  to  joys  immortal. 
Fear  not,  weep  not,  ours  the  boon  ; 
We  shall  all  be  happy  soon  ! 

Hark  !  a  voice  is  whispering  near  us  ; 
'T  is  an  angel- voice  to  cheer  us  ; 
It  entreats  us  not  to  weep, 
Fresh  and  green  our  souls  to  keep  ; 
And  it  sings,  in  cheerful  tune, 
We  shall  all  be  happy  soon. 

Thus  through  life,  though  gjjj|f  and  care 
May  be  given  us  to  bear, 


320  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

Though  all  dense  and  dark  the  cloud 
That  our  weary  forma  enshroud, 
Night  will  pass,  and  come  the  noon, 
We  shall  all  be  happy  soon. 

When  the  last  line  of  each  verse  was  sung,  it  was  no 
fancy  thought  in  us,  in  Nelly  more  than  all  others,  that 
suggested  the  union  of  other  voices  with  our  own ;  neither 
was  it  an  illusion  that  pictured  a  great  thing  with  harps, 
repeating  the  words,  "  We  shall  all  be  happy  soon." 

The  sexton  even,  he  who  was  so  used  to  grave-yard  scenes, 
was  doubly  interested  ;  and,  when  the  last  look  was  taken, 
and  Nelly  seemed  to  look  less  in  the  dark  grave  and  more 
up  to  the  bright  sky  above  her  than  those  in  her  situation 
usually  do,  I  saw  him  watch  her,  and  a  tear  trickled  down 
his  wrinkled  face. 

As  we  turned  to  leave,  I  asked  him  why  he  wept.  His 
features  brightened  up.  "  For  joy,  for  joy,"  said  he.  "I 
have  put  away  the  dead  here  for  forty  long  years ;  but  I 
never  beheld  so  happy  a  burial  as  this.  It  seems  as  though 
the  angels  were  with  that  child  She  looks  so  heavenly." 

Perhaps  they  were.  And  why  say  '•  perhaps  "?  Do  we 
not  know  they  are  ever  round  us,  and  very  near  to  such  a 
one  as  Nelly,  at  such  a  time? 


REUNION. 

WHEN  we  muse  o'er  days  departed, 

Lights  that  shone  but  shine  no  more, 
Friends  of  ours  who  long  since  started 

O'er  the  sea  without  a  shore  ; 
Journeying  on  and  journeying  ever, 

Their  freed  spirits  wing  their  flight, 
Ceasing  in  their  progress  never 

Towards  the  fountain-head  of  light ; 
Oft  we  wish  that  they  were  near  us,  — 

We  might  see  the  friends  we  love, — 
Then  there  come  these  words  to  cheer  us, 

"  Ye  shall  meet  them  all  above." 

When  the  sun's  first  ray  approacheth, 

Ushering  in  the  noonday  light ; 
When  the  noise  of  day  encroacheth 

On  the  silence  of  the  night ; 
When  the  dreams  depart  that  blest  us 

In  the  hours  forever  fled,  — 
In  which  friends  long  gone  carest  us, 

Friends  we  number  with  the  dead,  — 
Comes  this  thought,  Ye  ne'er  shall  hear  them, 

Ne'er  shall  see  the  friends  ye  love  ; 
Voices  say,  "  Ye  shall  be  near  them, 

With  them  in  the  world  above." 

When  within  the  grave's  enclosure 

Ye  do  drop  the  silent  tear, 
Tremble  not  at  its  disclosure, 

Myriad  spirits  hover  near. 


322  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

Hark  !  they  whisper,  do  ye  hear  not, 

Mingling  with  your  rising  sighs, 
Words  that  bid  you  hope,  and  fear  not, 

Angel-voices  from  the  skies  ? 
And  as  dust  to  dust  returneth,  — 

That  which  held  the  gem  you  love,  — 
Thine  afflicted  spirit  learneth 

It  will  meet  that  gem  above. 

Thus  whene'er  a  friend  departeth 

In  my  soul  I  know  't  is  right ; 
And,  although  the  warm  tear  starteth, 

As  he  passes  from  my  sight, 
I  do  know  that  him  I  cherish 

Here  on  earth  shall  never  die  ; 
That,  though  all  things  else  shall  perish, 

He  shall  live  and  reign  on  high. 
And,  that  when  a  few  hours  more 

Shall  have  passed,  then  those  I  love, 
Who  have  journeyed  on  before, 

I  shall  meet  and  greet  above. 


THE    VILLAGE    MYSTERY. 

ABOUT  fifty  miles  from  a  southern  city,  about  five  years 
ago,  a  most  mysterious  personage  seemed  to  fall  from  the 
clouds  into  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  young  ladies,  whose  hours 
and  days  were  thenceforth  busily  employed  in  quizzing,  guess 
ing,  pondering  and  wondering. 

He  was  a  tall,  graceful- formed  gentleman,  wearing  a  pro- 
fessional-loaking  cloak,  and  buff  pants,  tightly  strapped  over 
boots  of  delicate  make,  polished  up  to  the  very  highest  capa 
bilities  of  Day  and  Martin.  He  had  no  baggage ;  which 
fact  led  some  wise-headed  old  ladies  to  report  him  to  be  a 
gentleman  of  leisure,  a  literary  millionaire,  it  might  be,  who 
was  travelling  through  "the  States"  for  the  purpose  of  pick 
ing  up  items  for  a  book  on  "  Ameriky."  The  old  men 
wagged  their  heads,  and  looked  most  impenetrably  mysteri 
ous.  The  young  men  became  jealous.  To  be  sure  he  was 
not  superlatively  handsome,  but  he  had  a  foreign  air.  which 
was  considerable  among  the  girls  ;  and  his  appearance  indi 
cated  wealth,  for  his  dress  was  of  the  first  quality  and  cut. 
lie  had  half  a  dozen  glistening  rings  on  his  hands  ;  he  wore 
a  breast-pin  of  dazzling  brilliance  ;  and  every  time  he  moved 
a  chained  lion  could  not  have  made  more  noise,  and  clatter, 
and  show  with  his  fetters,  than  he  did  with  a  massive  double- 
linked  chain,  that  danced  and  flirted  upon  his  crimson  vest. 

Abby  and  Nelly,  the  belles  of  the  place,  had  each  had  an 
eye  upon  the  new  comer,  since  he  passed  by  the  splendid 


324  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

mansion  of  their  abode,  casting  a  sly  glance  up  to  the  T>p<>n 
window  at  which  they  stood. 

In  a  week,  our  foreign  friend  had  made  the  circuit  of  all 
the  fashionable  society  of  Greendale.  He  had  drank  tea 
with  the  "  Commissioners,"  and  walked  out  with  their  amia 
ble  daughters.  He  had  visited  the  pastor,  and  had  evinced 
great  interest  in  the  prosperity  of  the  church.  He  had  even 
exhorted  in  the  conference-meeting,  and  had  become  so  pop 
ular  that  some  few,  taking  'it  for  granted  that  so  devout  a 
man  must  be  a  clergyman,  had  serious  thoughts  of  asking 
the  old  parson  to  leave,  and  the  stranger  to  accept  the  pul 
pit, —  four  hundred  and  eighty-two  dollars  a  year,  and  a  dona 
tion-party's  offerings.  He  had  attended  the  sewing-circle, 
and  made  himself  perfectly  at  home  with  everybody  and 
everything.  The  young  men's  society  for  ameliorating  the 
condition  of  the  Esquimauxs  and  Hottentots  had  been 
favored  with  his  presence ;  and,  likewise,  with  a  speech  of 
five  minutes  long,  which  speech  had.  in  an  astonishingly 
short  time,  been  printed  on  pink  satin  and  handsomely 
framed. 

The  lower  class  of  people,  for  whom  the  stranger  talked 
so  much,  and  shed  so  many  tears,  and  gave  vent  to  so  many 
pitiful  exclamations,  but  with  whom,  however,  he  did  not 
deign  to  associate,  were  filled  with  a  prodigious  amount  of 
wonder  at  the  lion  and  his  adventures.  They  gathered  at 
Squire  Brim's  tavern,  and  at  the  store  on  the  corner,  and 
wondered  and  talked  over  the  matter.  The  questions  with 
them  were,  Who  is  he  ?  —  where  did  he  come,  and  where  is 
he  going  to  ?  They  would  not  believe  all  they  had  heard 
conjectured  about  him,  and  some  few  were  so  far  independ 
ent  as  to  hint  of  the  possibility  of  imposition. 

There  were  two  who  determined  to  find  out,  at.  all  haz 
ards,  the  name,  history,  come  from  and  go  to,  of  the  myste 
rious  guest;  and,  to  accomplish  their  purpose,  they  found  it 


THE  VILLAGE  MYSTEKY.  325 

necessary  for  them  to  go  to  Baltimore  early  the  subsequent 
morning. 

The  morning  came.  After  taking  a  measurement  of  the 
height,  breadth  and  bulk  of  the  foreigner,  as  also  a  mental 
daguerreotype  of  his  personal  appearance,  they  departed. 


Having  been  very  politely  invited,  it  is  no  strange  mat 
ter  of  fact  that,  just  as  the  sun  has  turned  the  meridian,  on 
the  fifth  of  March,  a  young  man  is  seen  walking  slowly  upon 
the  shady  side  of  Butternut-street,  Greendale.  To  him  all 
eyes  are  directed.  Boys  stop  their  plays,  and  turn  their 
inquisitive  eyes  towards  the  pedestrian.  The  loungers  at 
Brim's  tavern  flock  to  the  door,  and  gaze  earnestly  at  him  ; 
while  Bridget  the  house-maid,  and  Dennis  the  hostler,  hold 
a  short  confab  on  the  back  stairs,  each  equally  wondering 
whose  "  bairn  "  he  can  be. 

As  he  continues  on  his  way,  he  meets  a  couple  of  sociable 
old  ladies,  with  whom  he  formed  an  acquaintance  at  the  sew 
ing-circle.  They  shake  hands  most  cordially. 

"  Abby  and  Nelly  are  waiting  for  you  ;  they  're  expecting 
you,"  says  one  of  the  ladies,  as  she  breathes  a  blessing  and 
bids  him  good-by,  with  a  hope  that  he  will  have  a  pleasant 
time  at  the  deacon's. 

Let  us  now  take  a  few  steps  in  advance,  and  enter  the 
hospitable  mansion  to  which  our  mysterious  personage,  who 
has  given  his  name  as  Sir  Charles  Nepod,  is  passing. 

Up  these  beautiful  white  steps  walk  with  dainty  tread. 
At  this  highly-polished  door  ring  with  gentle  hand. 

A  stout  serving-man  answers  our  call,  and  a  tittering 
serving-girl  scampers  away  and  conceals  herself  behind  the 
staircase,  as  we  enter.  What,  think  you,  can  be  going  on  ? 
A  wedding,  forsooth, —  perhaps  a  dinner-party. 

A  brace  of  charming  girls,  the  deacon's  only  daughters, 
are  seated  in  the  front  parlor.  We  are  introduced,  and  soon 
28 


326  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

learn  that  they  are  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  talented,  the 
benevolent  Sir  Charles ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  form  and  cour 
tesy,  rather  than  of  sincerity  and  hospitalitjr,  we  are  invited 
to  remain  and  meet  him  in  the  dining-room.  We  decline  ; 
bid  them  good-by,  and  leave.  As  we  pass  out,  we  are  hailed 
in  a  loud  whisper  by  the  man  who  first  met  us,  who  glibly 
runs  on  with  his  talk  as  he  leads  the  way,  walking  sideways 
all  the  time  to  the  door. 

"An'  sirs, —  sirs,  dus  yers  know  what  the  young  Mis- 
thresses  is  afther  )  Well,  sirs,  they  ;s  goin'  fur  to  hev'  a 
greath  dinner  with  the  furriner.  Yes,  sirs,  with  the  furriner 
as  come  frum  a  furrin.  land,  and  wasn't  born  in  this  at  all 
a'  tall." 

As  we  reach  the  door,  he  steps  up,  whispers  in  our  ears, 

"An'  I  tells  yer  what,  sirs,  Kate, —  that's  the  gal  yer 
sees,  sirs, —  me  and  she  's  goin'  to  see  all  frurn  the  little 
•winder  beyant.  This  is  conveniently  private  to  you,  sirs, 
an'  I  hopes  ye  '11  say  nothing  to  no  one  about  it,  sirs  ;  't  is 
a  private  sacret,  sirs." 

What  should  induce  this  man  to  give  us  this  information, 
we  cannnot  conceive.  However,  we  have  no  reason  to  doubt 
what  he  tells  us,  and  therefore  understand  that  a  dinner 
party  is  to  come  off,  with  a  wedding  in  perspective. 

As  we  pass  into  thaijetreet,  we  meet  Xepod. 

As  he  ascends  th*«teps.  the  two  girls,  forgetting  all  rules 
of  etiquette,  spring  to  the  door,  completely  bewildering  hon 
est  Mike,  who  is  at  hand,  and  welcome  the  man  of  the  age. 

"  Mother  and  aunty  have  just  gone  out,"  says  Nelly  ;  — 
"  they  thought  we  young  folks  would  enjoy  our  dinner  much 
better  by  ourselves  alone." 

"  How  considerate  ! "  replies  the  guest.  "  I  met  the  good 
old  ladies  on  the  street.  How  kind  in  them  to  be  so  thought 
ful  !  How  pleasantly  will  pass  the  hours  of  to-day  !  This 
day  will  be  the  happiest  of  my  life." 


THE   VILLAGE    MYSTERY.  327 

The  three  pass  to  the  dining-room.  Though  early  in 
March,  the  weather  is  quite  warm.  In  the  haste  of  the 
moment,  and  somewhat  confused  by  his  warm  welcome,  our 
hero  has  taken  his  hat  and  cloak  and  laid  them  on  a  lounge 
near  an  open  window.  Seated  at  the  table,  the  company 
discourse  on  a  variety  of  subjects,  and  the  two  sisters  vie  with 
each  other  in  doing  the  agreeable. 


Down  town  all  was  excitement,  and  a  great  crowd  was 
gathered  at  the  tavern.  The  investigating  committee  had 
returned  from  the  city,  and  with  the  committee  three  meu 
of  mysterious  look.  To  the  uninitiated  the  mystery  that 
had  puzzled  them  for  so  long  a  time  grew  yet  more  myste 
rious.  Nothing  could  be  learned  from  the  two  who  had 
returned,  respecting  Sir  Charles,  or  the  additional  strangers. 
Only  dark  and  mysterious  hints  were  thrown  out,  render 
ing  the  whole  affair  more  completely  befogged  than  before. 

Mr.  Brim,  the  keeper  of  the  tavern,  silently  conducted 
the  new  comers  out  by  a  back  passage,  and  soon  they  were- 
seen  in  the  same  path  which  Sir  Charles  had  followed. 

One  of  the  men  quietly  opened  the  front  door  of  the  dea 
con's  home,  and,  entering,  knocked  upon  the  door  of  the 
dining-room.  A  voice  said,  "  Come  in  ;"  and  he  proceeded 
to  do  so. 

In  an  instant,  as  if  struck  by  an  electric  shock,  the  dis 
tinguished  guest  sprang  from  the  table,  and  leaped  through 
the  open  window,  leaving  his  hat  and  cloak  behind.  But 
the  leap  did  not  injure  him,  for  he  fell  into  the  arms  of  a 
man  who  stood  ready  to  embrace  him ;  and,  mystery  on  mys 
tery,  they  placed  hand-cuffi  on  his  wrists  ! 

Judge,  if  you  can,  of  the  astonishment  and  mortification 
of  the  deacon's  girls,  when  they  were  told  that  he  who  had" 
been  their  guest  was  a  bold  highwayman,  who  had  escaped 
from  the  penitentiary. 


328  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

There  was  great  ado  in  Greendale  that  afternoon  and 
evening.  Those  who  had  been  unable  to  gain  his  attention 
said  they  knew  all  the  time  he  was  a  rogue.  The  young 
men's  society  voted  to  sell  the  frame  and  destroy  the  printed 
speech  ;  and  the  next  Sabbath  the  good  pastor  preached 
about  a  roaring  lion  that  went  about  seeking  whom  he  might 
devour. 


THE    WAYSIDE    DEATH. 

Not  many  years  since,  an  old  man,  who  had  for  a  long  time  sat  by  the 
wayside  depending  upon  the  charity  of  those  who  passed  by  for  his  daily 
bread,  died  a  few  moments  after  receiving  an  ill-mannered  reply  to  his 
request  for  alms.  Subjjjguent  inquiries  proved  that  he  had  been  a  soldier 
in  the  American  Revolution. 


WHEN  Freedom's  call  rang  o'er  the  land, 

To  bring  its  bold  defenders  nigh, 
Young  Alfred  took  a  foremost  stand, 

Resolved  to  gain  the  day  or  die. 
And  well  he  fought,  and  won  the  trust ; 

When  the  day's  conflicts  had  been  braved, 
The  foe's  proud  ensigns  lay  in  dust, 

While  Freedom's  banner  victor  waved. 

But  now  he  is  a  poor  old  man, 

And  they  who  with  him,  side  by  side, 
Fought  bravely  in  that  little  van, 

Have  left  him,  one  by  one,  —  have  died. 
And  now  to  no  one  can  he  tell, 

Though  touched  with  patriot  fire  his  tongue, 
The  story  of  those  days  which  well 

Deserve  to  be  by  freemen  sung, 
And  cherished  long  as  life  shall  last ; 

To  childhood  told,  that  it  may  know 
Who  braved  the  storm  when  came  the  blast, 

And  vanquished  Freedom's  direst  foe. 

He  sits  there  on  the  curb-stone  now, 
That  brave  old  man  of  years  gone  by  ; 

His  head  'neath  age  and  care  would  bow, 
But  yet  he  raise th  it  on  high, 

28* 


330  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

And,  stretching  out  his  feeble  hands, 

He  asks  a  penny  from  man's  purse, 
Food  for  himself  from  off  that  land 

He  fought  to  save.     Yet,  but  a  curse 
Falls  from  their  lips  to  greet  his  ear  ; 

And  he,  despairing,  turns  and  sighs, 
And  bows  his  head,  —  there  falls  one  tear, 

It  is  the  last  —  he  dies. 
****** 
Now  men  do  rudely  lift  his  hat, 

To  gaze  upon  his  furrowed  face, 
And  say,  "It  is  the  man  who  sat 

Here  for  so  long  a  foul  disgrace." 
Crowds  gather  round  the  spot  to  see, 

And  then  pass  idly  on,  and  say, 
To  those  who  ask  who  it  can  be, 

"  'T  is  but  a  vagrant  of  the  way." 

Thus  he  who  fought  and  bled  to  gain 
The  blessings  which  are  round  us  strewn, 

For  one  he  asked,  besought  in  vain, 
Received  man's  curse,  and  died  —  unknown. 

O,  my  own  country  !  shall  it  be 

That  they  who  through  thy  struggle  passed, 
And  bore  thy  banner  manfully, 

Shall  thus  neglected  die  at  last  ? 
0,  shall  it  be  no  help  shall  come 

From  thy  o'erflowing  wealth  to  bless? 
Wilt  thou  be  blind,  wilt  thou  be  dumb, 

To  pleas  like  theirs  in  wretchedness  ? 

Answer  !  and  let  your  answer  be 

A  helping  hand  lowered  down  to  raise 
From  want  and  woe  those  who  for  thee 

Won  all  thy  honor,  all  thy  praise, 
And  made  thee  what  thou  art  to-day, 

A  refuge  and  a  hope  for  man  ; 
Speak  !  ere  the  last  one  wings  away  ; 

Act !  act  while  yet  to-day  you  can. 


BEAUTY    AND    INNOCENCE.  331 


BEAUTY   AND    INNOCENCE. 

[FOR   AN  ENGRAVING    OF    COTTAGE   GIRL   AND    LAMB.] 

O,  MAIDEN,  standing  in  the  open  field, 

On  pasture  sparkling  with  the  morning  dew  ! 

What  joy  thou  findest  Nature  now  to  yield 
To  hearts  developed  right,  —hearts  that  are  true  ! 

Above  is  beauty,  as  along  the  sky 

The  dawn  of  light  sends  forth  its  herald  ray 

To  arch  the  heavens,  and  myriad  leagues  on  high 
Proclaim  the  coming  of  the  god  of  day. 

Beneath  is  beauty  ;  see  the  glistening  gems 
Around  thy  feet  in  rich  profusion  strewn  ; 

Such  as  ne'er  glows  in  kingly  diadems, 

Such  as  man's  handiwork  hath  never  shown. 

Around  is  beauty  ;  on  each  vale  and  hill, 

In  open  field  and  in  the  shady  wood, 
A  voice  is  whispering,  soft,  and  low,  and  still, 

"  All,  all  is  beautiful,  for  God  is  good." 

Thou,  too,  art  beautiful,  0,  maiden  fair, 

While  Innocence  within  thine  arms  doth  rest ; 

And  thou  wilt  e'er  be  thus,  no  grief  thou  'It  share, 
If  such  a  blessing  dwell  within  thy  breast 

As  that  whose  emblem  now  lies  gently  there. 


332  TOWN    AND   COUNTRY. 


NIGHT. 

I  VE  watched  the  Bun  go  down,  and  evening  draw 
Its  twilight  mantle  o'er  the  passive  earth, 
And  hang  its  robe  of  blue,  all  gemmed  with  stars, 
High  over  all  for  mortal  eyes  to  gaze  at. 
And  now  I  come  to  tread  this  sodded  earth, 
To  walk  alone  in  Nature's  vaulted  hall ; 
Yet,  not  alone  ;  —  I  hear  the  rustling  leaf, 
The  cricket's  note,  the  night-bird's  early  lay  ; 
I  feel  the  cool  breeze  as  it  fans  my  brow, 
And  scent  the  fragrance  of  tUe  untainted  air. 

I  love  the  night.    There  's  something  in  its  shade 
That  sends  a  soothing  influence  o'er  the  soul, 
And  fits  it  for  reflection,  sober  thought. 
It  comes  bearing  a  balm  to  weary  ones,    . 
A  something  undefinable,  yet  felt 
By  souls  that  feel  the  want  of  something  real. 

And  now  't  is  night,  and  well  it  is  that  I 
Am  here.    I  stand,  my  hand  on  this  old  tree, 
Pressing  its  mossy  side,  with  no  one  near 
I  can  call  fellow  in  the  human  strife, 
The  great,  unfinished  drama  of  this  life. 
Alone,  alone,  with  Nature  and  its  God, 
I  '11  sit  me  down,  and  for  a  moment  muse 
On  busy  scenes,  and,  like  some  warrior  chief,        t 
Behold,  yet  mingle  not  in  earth's  great  acts. 

To-night  how  various  are  the  states  of  men ! 
Some,  bowed  by  sickness,  press  their  sleepless  couch, 
Wishing  while  day  doth  last  that  night  would  come, 
And  now  that  niglit  is  with  them  wish  for  day. 
Remorse  holds  some  in  its  unyielding  grasp  ; 
Despair,  more  cruel  yet,  haunts  some  men's  souls  ; 
Both,  ministers  of  justice  conscience  sends 
To  do  its  fearful  bidding  in  those  breasts 
Which  have  rebelled  and  disavowed  its  rule. 


NIGHT.  333 

Perchance,  a  maiden  happy  as  a  queen 
To-night  doth  fix  her  destiny.   A  happy  throng 
Gather  around,  and  envy  her  her  bliss. 
They  little  know  what  magic  power  lies  low 
In  the  filled  wine-cup  as  they  pass  it  round  ; 
They  little  think  it  plants  a  venomed  dart 
In  the  glad  soul  of  her  whose  lips  do  press 
Its  dancing  sparkles. 

Sorrow's  nucleus ! 

Round  that  cup  shall  twine  memories  so  dark 
That  night  were  noonday  to  them,  to  their  gloom. 
Dash  it  aside  !     See  you  not  how  laughs 
Within  the  chalice  brim  an  evil  eye  ? 
Each  sparkling  ray  that  from  its  depth  comes  up 
Is  the  foul  tempter's  hand  outstretched  to  grasp 
The  thoughtless  that  may  venture  in  his  reach . 

How  to-night  the  throng  press  on  to  bend 
The  knee  to  Baal,  and  to  place  a  crown 
On  Magog's  princely  head  !     Dollars  and  dimes, 
A  purse  well-filled,  a  soul  that  pants  for  more  ; 
An  eye  that  sees  a  farthing  in  the  dust, 
And  in  its  glitter  plenitude  of  joy, 
Yet  sees  no  beauty  in  the  stars  above, 
No  cause  for  gladness  in  the  light  of  day,  — 
A  hand  that  grasps  the  wealth  of  earth,  and  yields 
For  sake  of  it  the  richer  stores  of  heaven  ; 
A  soul  that  loves  the  perishing  of  earth, 
And  hates  that  wealth  which  rust  can  ne'er  corrupt. 
How  many  such  !     How  many  bar  their  souls 
'Gainst  every  good,  yet  ope  it  wide  to  wrong  ! 
This  night  they  're  all  in  arms.     They  watch  and  wait ; 
Now  that  the  sun  hath  fled,  and  evening's  shade 
Doth  follow  in  its  path,  they  put  in  play 
The  plans  which  they  in  daylight  have  devised, 
Entrapping  thoughtless  feet,  and  leading  down 
The  flower-strewn  path  a  daughter  or  a  son, 
On  whose  fair,  white  brow,  the  warm,  warm  moisture 
Of  a  parent's  kiss  seems  yet  to  linger. 
Stay  !  daughter,  son,  0,  heed  a  friend's  advice, 


334  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

Rush  not  in  thoughtless  gayety  along  ! 
Beware  of  pit-falls.     T.ist.-n  and  you  '11  hear 
From  some  deep  pit  a  warning  voice  to  thec  ; 
For  thousands  low  have  fallen,  who  once  had 
Hopes,  prospects,  fair  us  thine  ;  they  listened,  fell ! 
And  from  the  depths  of  their  deep  misery  call 
On  thee  to  think.     0,  follow  not,  but  reach 
A  helping  hand  to  raise  them  from  their  woe  ! 

Clouds  hide  the  moon  ;  how  now  doth  wrong  prevail ! 
Wrong  holdeth  carnival,  and  death  is  near. 
O,  what  a  sight  were  it  for  man  to  see, 
Should  there  on  this  dark,  shrouded  hour 
Burst  in  an  instant  forth  a  noonday  light ! 
How  many  who  are  deemed  righteous  men, 
And  bear  a  fair  exterior  by  day, 
Would  now  be  seen  in  fellowship  with  sin  ! 
Laughing,  and  sending  forth  their  jibes'  and  jeers, 
And  doing  deeds  which  Infamy  might  own. 

But  not  alone  to  wrong  and  base  intrigue 
Do  minister  these  shades  of  night ;  for  Love 
Holds  high  her  beacon  Charity  to  guide 
To  deeds  that  angels  might  be  proud  to  own. 
Beneath  the  shadows  that  these  clouds  do  cast, 
Hath  many  a  willing  hand  bestowed  a  gift 
Its  modest  worth  in  secret  would  confer. 
No  human  eye  beheld  the  welcome  purse 
Dropped  at  the  poor  man's  humble  cottage  door  ; 
But  angels  saw  the  act,  and  they  have  made 
A  lasting  record  of  it  on  the  scroll 
That  bears  the  register  of  human  life. 

Many  a  patient  sufferer  watches  now 
The  passing  hours,  and  counts  them  as  they  flee. 
Many  a  watcher  with  a  sleepless  eye 
Keeps  record  of  the  sick  man's  every  breath. 
Many  a  mother  bends  above  her  child 
In  deep  solicitude,  in  deathless  love. 

Night  wears  away,  and  up  the  eastern  sky 
The  dawn  approaches.     So  shall  life  depart,  — 


NOT  DEAD,  BUT  CHANGED.  335 

This  life  of  ours  on  earth,  —  and  a  new  birth 
Approach  to  greet  us  with  immortal  joys, 
So  gently  on  our  inner  life  shall  come 
The  light  of  heaven. 

Time  moveth  on ,  and  I  must  join  again 
The  busy  toil  of  life  ;  and  I  must  go. 
And  yet  I  would  not.     I  would  rather  stay 
And  talk  with  these  green  woods,  —  for  woods  can  talk. 
Didst  ever  hear  their  voice  ?  In  spring  they  speak 
Of  early  love  and  youth,  and  ardent  hope  ; 
In  summer,  of  the  noon  of  wedded  life, 
All  buds  and  blossoms  and  sweet-smelling  flowers ; 
In  autumn,  of  domestic  bliss  with  all  its  fund 
Of  ripe  enjoyments,  and  then  winter  hears 
The  leafless  trees  sing  mysterious  hymns, 
And  point  their  long  lean  arms  to  homes  above. 
Yes,  the  old  woods  talk,  and  I  might  hold 
A  sweet  communion  here  with  them  to-night. 
Farewell  to  Night ;  farewell  these  thoughts  of  mine, 
For  day  hath  come. 


NOT    DEAD,    BUT    CHANGED. 

I  SAT  and  mused  o'er  all  the  years  gone  by ; 

Of  friends  departed,  and  of  others  going  ; 
And  dwelt  upon  their  memories  with  a  sigh, 

Till  floods  of  tears,  their  hidden  springs  o'erflowing, 
Betrayed  my  grief.    Soon,  a  bright  light  above  me, 
Voices  saying,  "  We  're  near  thee  yet  to  love  thee," 

Dispelled  my  tears.    I  raised  my  drooping  head, 

And  asked,  "  Who,  who,  —  the  dead?  " 
When  the  angelic  host  around  me  ranged 
Whispered  within  my  ear,  "  Not  dead,  but  changed.'1'' 


THE    DISINHERITED. 

MY  next  door  neighbor's  name  was  Jotham  Jenks.  This 
was  all  I  knew  about  him,  until  the  circumstance  I  am  about 
to  tell  you  occurred. 

One  evening  I  had  seated  myself  by  my  fire,  and  had 
taken  up  an  evening  paper  with  which  to  occupy  my  time, 
until  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  I  momentarily  expected, 
should  arrive.  It  was  December, —  cold,  blustering,  and  by 
no  means  an  agreeable  time  to  be  out  of  doors,  or  away  from 
a  good  fire.  Such  being  the  state  of  affairs,  as  far  as  weather 
was  concerned,  I  began  to  think  I  should  not  see  my  friend 
that  night,  when  a  smart  rap  upon  the  outer  door,  half  a 
dozen  times  repeated,  prevented  me  from  further  specula 
tion. 

Why  did  n't  he  ring  ?  —  there  was  a  bell.  It  must  have 
been  a  stranger,  else  he  would  have  used  it. 

Presently  a  servant  came  with  the  information  that  a 
stranger  was  at  the  door  with  a  carriage,  and  wished  my 
immediate  presence. 

"  Request  him  to  walk  in,"  said  I. 

"He  cannot  wait  a  moment,"  answered  the  servant;  — 
"  he  wishes  you  to  put  on  your  hat  and  coat,  and  go  with 
him." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  He  did  not  say." 

This  was  a  strange  interruption, —  strange  that  a  man,  a 
stranger,  in  fact,  should  call  for  me  to  go  out  with  him  on 


THE    DISINHERITED.  337 

* 

such  a  night :  but  I  mustered  courage,  and  went  out  to  meet 
him.  I  don't  know  what  induced  me  so  readily  to  grant  his 
request ;  but*out  I  went,  hatted,  coated  and  booted.  As  I 
approached,  I  heard  the  falling  of  steps,  and  the  voice  of  the 
coachman  requesting  me  to  hurry.  Reaching  the  carriage, 
I  looked  in  and  beheld  Jotham  Jenks.  In  I  jumped,  and 
before  I  was  seated  the  carriage  was  moving. 

The  whip  snapped,  the  wheels  whirled  round,  and  we 
passed  through  the  lighted  streets  with  almost  incredible 
speed.  I  ventured  to  make  an  inquiry,  and  the  reply  was,. 

' :  You  are  doing  a  good  deed.  My  name  is  Jotham  Jenks. 
Ask  no  questions  now." 

Thus  was  a  veto  put  upon  the  movements  of  my  tongue  for 
the  time  being.  I,  however,  recognized  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Jenks ;  and  though  I  knew  but  little  respecting  him,  I  judged 
from  his  appearance  that  he  was  a  quiet,  unoffending  man ; 
and  such  I  afterwards  found  him. 

For  thirty  minutes  the  horses  raced  along,  causing  the 
water,  ice  and  snow,  to  take  to  themselves  wings  and  fly 
upon  pedestrians,  windows,  and  sundry  other  animate  and 
inanimate  objects  of  creation.  For  myself,  I  began  to  ex 
perience  some  misgiving,  for  thus  exposing  myself  to  what,  I 
did  not  know. 

At  length  the  carriage  turned  down  a  dark,  narrow  street, 
leading  to  one  of  the  wharves,  upon  which  Ave  finally  found 
ourselves.  The  driver  jumped  from  his  seat,  opened  the 
carriage-door,  threw  down  the  steps,  and  we  got  out. 

Matters  had  reached  a  crisis.  Was  I  to  be  thrown  into 
the  water  ?  The  assurance  of  my  companion  that  I  was 
doing  a  good  deed  seemed  to  disfavor  this  supposition,  as 
what  possible  good  could  that  do  myself  or  any  one  else  1 
Yet,  for  what  was  I  taken  from  a  warm  room,  on  such  a 
cold,  dismal,  dark  night,  and  hurried  to  the  wharf? 
29 


338  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

"  Now,"  said  I  to  the  stranger,  "  I  must  know  the  mean 
ing  of  all  this.-  the  why  and  the  wherefore.'' 

He  took  my  hand  in  his.  It  was  quite  drtrk.  I  could 
not  see,  yet  I  could  tell  by  his  voice  that  he  wept,  as  he 
said, 

"  In  a  berth  in  the  cabin  of  that  vessel  lies  a  young  man, 
,  far  from  his  home,  among  strangers, —  sick,  perhaps  dying. 
No  relative,  other  than  those  of  the  great  brotherhood  of 
mankind,  is  near  to  minister  to  his  wants,  or  to  speak  com 
fort  to  his  troubled  heart.  He  had  been  here  about  two  days, 
when  I  was  informed  of  his  situation  by  a  friend  who  came 
in  the  same  vessel.  I  have  brought  you  here  that  you  might 
listen  to  his  statements,  and  assist  me  in  assisting  him. 
There  is  much  of  romance  in  his  narrative,  and,  as  you  arc 
preparing  a  volume  of  life-sketches,  as  found  in  town  and 
country,  I  have  thought  that  what  falls  from  his  lips  might 
fill  a  few  pages  with  interest  and  profit  to  your  readers." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  thoughtfulness.  My  suspicions  and 
fears  were  all  allayed  ;  I  asked  no  more  questions,  but  fol 
lowed  my  friend  as  he  passed  to  the  vessel,  and  descended 
the  narrow  stairway  to  the  cabin.  • 

A  small  lamp  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and  shed  a  sort  of 
gloomy  light  around.  I  had  been  in  chambers  of  sickness, 
but  never  in  a  room  where  more  neatness  was  discernible,  or 
more  sufficiency  for  its  tenant,  than  in  the  cabin  in  which  I 
then  was.  A  sailor  boy  seated  by  a  berth  indicated  to  me 
the  spot  where  the  sick  man  lay.  We  were  informed  that 
he  had  just  fallen  into  a  sleep,  and  we  were  careful  not  to 
awake  him. 

But,  notwithstanding  all  our  care,  our  movements  awoke 
him.  He  gazed  around  as  one  often  does  after  a  deep  sleep; 
but  a  consciousness  of  his  situation,  and  a  recognition  of  my 
companion,  soon  dispelled  his  vacant  looks,  and  his  features 


THE    DISINHERITED.  339 

were  illumed  with  as  expressive  a  smile  as  it  has  ever  been 
my  fortune  to  behold. 

I  was  introduced  to  the  invalid,  and  soon  we  were  as  famil 
iar  as  old  acquaintances.  His  name  was  Egbert  Lawrence, 
and  his  age  I  should  judge  from  appearances  to  be  about 
twenty-five. 

"It  is  possible  that  my  dear,  good  friend,  Mr.  Jenks,  has 
given  you  some  account  of  my  circumstances, "  he  remarked, 
addressing  me. 

I  replied  that  he  had  not,  any  further  than  to  state  that 
he  was  friendless.  He  started,  as  I  said  this,  and  ex 
claimed, 

"Friendless  !  His  own  modesty,  that  sure  mark  of  true 
merit,  induced  him  to  say  that ;  but,  dear  sir,  I  have  a  friend 
in  him,  greater  than  in  any  other  on  earth  now.  I  had  a 
friend,  but,  alas  !  she  's  gone." 

I  corrected  his  impression ;  remarked  that  I  only  intended 
to  convey  the  fact  that  he  was  in  a  strange  country,  among 
a  strange  people,  and  that  Mr.  Jenks  had  told  me  he  was 
worthy  of  assistance,  and  that  a  sketch  of  his  life  would 
interest  me. 

"  Then  you  would  like  to  hear  of  my  past,  would  you  ?  " 

"Most  certainly/'  I  replied;  "and  should  consider  it  a 
favor  should  you  consent  to  give  it  to  me." 

To  this  he  at  once  consented. 

"  I  was  born  in  the  west  of  England,"  he  began,  "and 
can  Avell  remember  what  a  charming  little  village  it  was  in 
which  I  passed  my  earliest  days.  My  mother  was  a  woman 
of  the  finest  sensibilities, —  too  fine,  in  fact,  for  the  rough 
winds  of  this  world.  Her  heart  beat  too  strongly  in  sym 
pathy  with  the  poor  and  oppressed,  the  weary-footed  and 
troubled  ones,  to  live  among  and  not  have  the  weight  of  their 
sorrows  and  cares  be;ir  also  upon  her,  and  gradually  wear 
out  the  earth  tenement  of  her  spirit. 


340  TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

"As  far  as  a  fine,  sensitive  feeling  was  hers,  so  far  it  was 
mine.  I  inherited  it.  But  I  would  not  flatter  myself  so 
much  as  to  say  that  I.  in  like  manner,  partook  of  her  heav 
enly,  loving  nature,  or  that  I  in  any  of  her  noble  traits  was 
worthy  of  being  her  son. 

"Many  times  have  I  been  the  bearer  of  her  secret  chari 
ties.  Many  times  have  I  heard  the  poor  bless  the  unknown 
hand  that  placed  bounties  at  their  door.  Many  times  have 
I  seen  my  mother  weep  while  I  told  her  of  what  I  heard  the 
recipients  of  her  benevolence  tell  their  neighbors,  and  the 
many  conjectures  in  their  minds  as  to  who  the  donor  could 
be.  And,  0,  there  was  joy  sparkling  in  her  eyes  when  I 
told  her  of  what  I  had  seen  and  heard  !  The  grateful  poor, 
concluding,  after  all  their  surmising,  that,  as  they  could  not 
tell  for  a  certainty  who  it  was  who  gave  them  food  and 
clotffing,  they  would  kneel  down  and  thank  God  ;  for,  said 
they,  in  their  honest,  simple  manner,  He  knows.  The 
benevolent  hand  cannot  hide  itself  from  his  presence,  or 
escape  his  reward. 

"My  father  was  quite  a  different  person.  How  it  Mas 
they  met  and  loved,  I  could  not  for  a  long  time  determine. 
But  one  evening  my  mother  told  me  all  about  it,  and  said 
he  was  not  the  man  of  her  choice,  but  of  her  parents'  choice ; 
and  that  she  had  never  loyed  him  with  that  deep  and  earnest 
love  that  alone  can  bind  two  hearts  in  one  embrace.  But 
she  said  she  had  endeavored  to  do  her  duty  towards  him. 
Good  woman  !  I  knew  that.  :T  was  her  very  nature  to  do 
that.  'T  was  a  law  of  her  being,  and  she  could  not  evade  it. 

"My  father  was  a  rough,  coarse-minded  man.  He  held 
an  office  under  the  government,  and,  from  being  accustomed 
to  the  exercise  of  some  little  authority  without  doors,  became 
habituated  to  a  morose,  ill-natured  manner  of  words  and 
behavior  within  our  home.  I  rememln-r  h<>\v  I  changed  my 
tone  of  voice,  and  my  mode  of  action,  when  at  night  he  came 


THE   DISINHERITED. 

home.  With  my  mother  I  talked  and  laughed,  and  played 
merrily  in  her  presence,  and  rather  liked  to  have  her  look 
on  my  sports ;  but  when  my  father  came  I  never  smiled.  I 
sat  up  on  my  chair  in  one  corner  as  stiff  and  upright  as  the 
elm-tree  in  front  of  our  house.  I  never  played  in  his  pres 
ence.  I  seldom  heard  a  kind  word  from  him.  My  mother 
used  to  call  me  '  Berty,  my  dear,'  when  she  wished  me  ;  but 
my  father  always  shouted,  sternly,  l  Egbert,  come  here,  sir! ' 
and  I  would  tremblingly  respond,  :  Shv 

"  Few  persons  seemed  to  love  him;  those  who  did,  did  so 
with  an  eye  to  business.  It  was  policy  in  them  to  flatter  the 
man  who  could  favor  them  pecuniarily,. and  they  hesitated 
not  to  do  so.  One  time,  when  my  father's  vote  and  influence 
were  worth  five  thousand  pounds  to  his  party,  and  he  exhib 
ited  symptoms  of  withholding  them,  he  had  rich  presents  sent 
him,  and  every  night  some  half  a  dozen  or  more  would  call 
in  and  sit  and  talk  with  him,  and  tell  him  how  admirably  all 
the  schemes  he  had  started  for  the  good  of  the  town  had  suc 
ceeded,  and  in  all  manner  of  ways  would  flatter  the  old  gen 
tleman,  so  that  he  would  be  quite  pleasant  all  the  next  day. 
At  this  time  handsome  carriages  came  to  take  him  to  ride, 
and  gentlemen  proposed  an  afternoon's  shooting  or  fishing, 
or  sport  of  some  kind,  and  my  father  always  accepted  and 
was  always  delighted.  The  simple  man,  he  couldn't  see 
through  the  gauze  bags  they  were  drawing  over  his  head  ! 
He  did  not  notice  the  nets  with  which  they  were  entangling 
his  feet.  When  election  came,  he  gave  his  vote,  and  did  not 
keep  back  his  influence. 

"  My  father  was  not  benevolent  to  any  great  degree.  He 
gave,  it  is  true.  He  gave  to  missionary  societies,  to  educa 
tion  and  tract  societies,  and  his  name  was  always  found 
printed  in  their  monthly  reports;  but  he  never  gave,  as  my 
mother  did,  to  the  poor  around  us,  unseen,  unknown.  Not 
even  he  knew  of  my  mother's  charitable  acts  ;  but  all  the 
•29* 


342  TOWN     AND    COC.VH'.Y. 

town  knew  of  his,  and  he  was  looked  upon  by  the  great  mass 
of  public?  mind  to  be  the  most  benevolent.  But  it  was  not 
so.  Far  from  it.  One  shilling  from  my  mother,  given  with 
the  heart,  with  sympathy,  given  for  the  sake  of  doing  good, 
not  for  the  sake  of  popularity,  was  a  greater  gift  than  a 
hundred  pounds  from  my  father's  hand,  given  as  he  always 
gave  it. 

"  I  attended  school  but  little.  My  mother  wished  me  to 
have  a  good  education,  but  my  father  said  if  I  could  '  figure ' 
well  it  was  enough.  I  was  taken  from  school  and  put  in  a 
store, —  a  place  which  I  abhorred.  I  was  put  there  to  sell 
tape,  and  pins,  and  thread,  and  yarn ;  and  I  was  kept  behind 
the  counter  from  early  morn  until  late  at  night. 

"  I  had  one  brother,  but  his  mind  was  nothing  like  mine. 
He  partook  of  my  father's  nature.  We  seldom  agreed  upon 
any  matter,  and  I  always  chose  to  be  alone  rather  than  with 
him.  I  do  not  think  I  was  wrong  in  this,  for  our  minds 
were  of  different  easts.  Neither  of  us  made  our  minds  or  our 
dispositions.  There  was, -therefore,  no  blame  upon  any  one, 
if,  on  account  of  the  difference  in  our  mental  organization*, 
our  affinities  led  us  apart.  It  was  a  perfectly  natural  result 
of  a  natural  cause. 

"I  will  not  weary  you  with  more  detail  of  my  life  to 
night  ;  but  to-morrow,  if  you  have  any  interest  in  what  I 
have  begun  to  tell  you,  I  will  tell  you  more." 

I  had  noticed  that  he  began  to  be  exhausted  with  his  effort, 
and  was  about  to  'propose  that  a  future  time  be  allotted  to 
what  more  he  chose  to  relate. 

I  assured  him  of  an  increased  interest  in  him.  and  sug 
gested  removing  him  to  a  good  boarding-house,  lie  at  first 
declined,  but  upon  further  urging  he  accepted,  and.  having 
seen  that  alt  hi*  wants  were  for  that  night  attended  tu.  we 
left,  with  the  understanding  that  a  carriage  should  convey 


THE    DISINHERITED.  343 

him  to  more  commodious  quarters   on  the   morrow,  if  the 
weather  permitted. 

I  had  no  fears  of  my  companion  as  we  rode  up  the  wharf 
and  drove  through  th<?  streets,  the  storm  beating  down  furi 
ously  around  us.  I  reached  my  home,  and  Mr.  Jenks 
thanked  me  for  my  kindness  in  blindly  following  him,  and  I 
in  return  thanked  him  for  the  pleasant  adventure  to  which 
he  had  introduced  me. 

CHAPTER     II, 

The  next  morning  the  weather  was  clear  and  the  air  invig 
orating,  as  is  often  the  case  after  a  severe  storm.  With  my 
neighbor  Jenks  I  procured  a  good  home  for  the  wanderer, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  was  located  in  it. 

I  was  soon  seated  by  his  side,  and  he  continued  his 
narrative. 

"I  told  you  last  evening  of  my  parents,  and  of  my  en 
trance  upon  business  life..  About  that  time  a  great  sorrow 
visited  me.  My  mother  was  taken  sick,  rapiclly  declined, 
and  in  a  fortnight  left  this  state  of  existence.  Beyond  this 
world  it  seemed  all  dark  to  me  then  ;  but  now  it  is  brighter 
there  than  here,  and  there  is  no  uncertainty  in  my  mind 
respecting  that  coming  state. 

"  I  have  not  told  you  she  died.  She  did  not  die.  There 
is  no  such  word  as  death  in  my  vocabulary.  She  did  not 
sleep  even.  She  passed  from  a  crumbling,  falling  building 
into  an  enduring  and  beautiful  temple,  not  made  with  hands. 
But  to  me,  then,  as  I  have  told  you,  it  was  all  dark ;  and  it 
was  not  a  wonder  that  I  was  sad,  and  that  it  was  indeed  a 
heavy  sorrow  that  rested  on  my  spirit.  Even  with  the  faith 
that  she  had.  the  thought  of  being  left  with  a  man  such  as 
my  father  was  would  have  made  me  sad.  You  will  wonder, 
perhaps,  that  I  had  not  learned  from  such  a  mother  as  mine 
a  clearer  faith  than  that  which  possessed  my  mind  at  tho 


344  TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 

time  of  her  departure  ;  but  I  had  not.  It  was  impossible  for 
me  to  accept  a  truth  with  that  amount  of  evidence  which  sat 
isfied  her  mind,  and  I  doubted,  at  times,  a  future  existence. 
But  I  do  not  doubt  it  now.  I  have  had  proof, —  abundant 
proof;  and,  0,  the  joy  that  fills  my  soul  is  unfathomable. 

"My  father  now  became  more  tyrannical  than  ever,  and 
everything  tended  to  destroy  whatever  there  was  of  my 
mother's  disposition  in  my  character.  But  nothing  could 
force  it  from  me.  I  was  sensitive  as  ever  to  the  remarks  and 
the  looks  of  all  with  whom  I  came  in  contact,  and  the  severe 
and  unmerited  reprimands  of  my  father  almost  crushed  me. 

"  Several  years  passed  by.  I  wasted  them  in  a  retail 
store.  It  was.  however,  not  a  complete  loss  to  me,  for  there 
I  formed  an  acquaintance  with  a  young  lady,  the  daughter 
of  a  poor  collier.  Our  friendship  ripened  to  mutual  love, 
and  we  were  happy  only  when  in  each  other's  presence.  Our 
interviews  were  frequent,  and  unknown  to  any  one  but  our 
selves  for  a  long  time.  At  length  my  father  became 
acquainted  with  the  facts.  He  called  me  to  his  room  one 
night,  and  scolded  me,  threatened  to  disinherit  me,  and 
treated  me  as  though  I  had  been  guilty  of  the  most  heinous 
crime. 

"'You  miserable,  good-for-nothing  scamp!'  said  he. 
'  Why  do  you  seek  to  lower  yourself  in  the  estimation  of 
every  man,  and  bring  <]is;_rvace  on  the  name  and  fame  of  my 
family,  by  associating  with  the  poor  daughter  of  a  worthless 
laborer?' 

"This  fired  my  brain:  but  I  was  timid  and  dare  not 
speak  my  thoughts  in  his  presence.  I  listened.  lie  show 
ered  upon  me  all  the  evil  epithets  his  tongue  could  dispense, 
and,  raving  like  a  madman,  he  pushed  me  to  the  door,  and 
told  me  to  cease  my  visits  upon  Evelina  or  leave  his  house 
forever  and  change  my  name,  for  he  would  not  shelter  me, 
or  own  any  relationship  to  me. 


THE    DISINHERITED.  £45 

"  Poor  gill !  She  little  thought  how  much  I  that  night 
endured  for  her,  or  how  much  I  was  willing  to  bear.  She 
was  a  beautiful  being, —  so  much  like  my  mother,  so  gentle, 
and  loving,  and  benevolent !  We  were  one.  True,  no  earthly 
law  recognized  us  as  such  ;  but  God's  law  did, —  a  law  writ 
ten  with  his  hand  on  our  beating  hearts.  We  had  been 
joined  far,  far  back,  ages  gone  by,  when  our  souls  first  had 
their  birth, —  long  ere  they  became  enshrined  in  earth  forms. 
The  church  might  have  passed  its  ceremonial  bond  about  us, 
but  that  would  have  been  mere  form  —  that  would  have  been 
a  union  which  man  might  have  put  asunder,  and  often  does. 
But  of  a  true  union  of  souls  it  is  useless  to  say  '  what  God  has 
joined  let  no  man  put  asunder  ;  '  for  he  cannot  any  more  than 
he  can- annul  any  other  of  his  great  laws. 

"My  father's  reprimands  and  threatenings  could  not, 
therefore,  dissolve  that  bond  which  united  me  to  Evelina, 
and  she  to  me.  So,  as  soon  as  I  left  his  room,  I  sought  her 
presence.  I  told  her  all,  and  she  wept  to  think  of  what  she 
had  caused,  as  she  said.  But  I  tried  to  convince  her,  and 
succeeded  in  doing  so  finally,  that  it  was  not  she  who  had 
caused  it.  She  had  not  made  her  soul  or  its  attributes. 
God  had  made  them,  and  if  they  were  in  unison  with  mine, 
or  if  Hhey  had  attractions  that  drew  my  soul  to  hers,  the 
law  under  which  they  came  together  and  would  not  be  sepa 
rated  was  God's  law,  and  we  could  not  escape  it- 

"  That  night  wo  walked  down  by  the  river's  side,  and  we 
talked  of  those  great  principles  that 'govern  us.  We  studied, 
there  in  the  clear  moonlight,  God's  works,  and  I  asked  her 
whether  in  loving  the  beautiful  and  the  good  we  did  not  love 
God. 

"Her  mind  opened  a  bright  effulgence  of  light  to  my 
spirit.  '  Yes,'  said  she,  '  it  is  even  so.  God  is  a  spirit.  He 
fills  immensity, —  and  if  so,  then  he  imbues  this  little  flower 
with  his  own  life,  for  he  is  the  life  of  all  things.  It  is  as  he 


346  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

made  it,  and  as  we  love  it  we  love  him.  When  vre  love  a  being 
for  his  goodness,  we  love  God;  for  that  goodness  is  of  God." 

"  '  Yes,'  I  remarked ;  '  I  see  it  is  so.  I  do  not  love  you 
as  a  material  being.  It  is  not  your  flesh  and  bones  merely 
that  I  love,  but  it  is  the  goodness  dwelling  in  you.  As  that 
goodness  is  more  abundant  in  you  than  in  others,  in  like 
degree  does  God  dwell  in  you  more  than  in  them.  If,  there 
fore,  I  love  you  more  than  I  love  them,  I  love  God  more  than 
I  should  did  my  supreme  love  find  its  highest  object  in  them. 
In  loving  you,  therefore,  I  love  God  so  far  as  you  possess  the 
characteristics  by  which  we  personify  that  being.  It  is  not 
wrong,  therefore,  to  love  you  or  the  flower;  for  goodness 
exists  in  one,  and  betfuty  in. the  other,  and  they  both  are  of 
God,  and  in  loving  them  we  love  God.' 

"  We  parted  at  a  late  hour.  I  went  with  her  to  the  door 
of  the  little  cottage  in  which  she  dwelt  with  her  father.  Her 
mother  had  died,  as  they  call  it,  long  years  before ;  and,  as 
I  "kissed  her,  and  pressed  her  hand  ajid  bade  her  good-by,  I 
felt  more  strongly  than  ever  a  determination  to  bear  any  pri 
vation,  endure  any  suffering,  for  her  sake. 

"  I  reached  my  home.  I  found  the  doors  fastened  and  all 
quiet.  The  moon  shone  very  clear,  and  it  was  nearly  as 
light  as  at  noon-day.  I  tried  the  windows,  and  fortunately 
found  one  of  them  unfastened.  I  raised  it  very  carefully, 
and  crept  in,  and  up  to  my  room.  The  next  morning  at 
breakfast  my  father  spoke  not  a  word,  but  I  knew  by  his 
manner  that  he  was  aware  of  my  disregard  of  his  command, 
and  I  thought  that  all  that  prevented  him  from  talking  to 
me  was  a  want  of  language  strong  enough  to  express  the 
passionate  feelings  that  ran  riot  in  his  soul. 

"I  judged  rightly.  For  at  night  his  passion  found  vent 
in  words,  and  such  a  copious  torrent  of  abuse  that  I  shud 
dered.  Nevertheless,  I  yielded  not  one  position  of  my  heart. 
and  was  conscious  that  I  had  a  strength  of  purpose  that 


THE   DISINHEKITED.  347 

would  ever  defend  the  right,  and  could  not  be  swayed  by 
mere  words. 

"  There  was  no  limit  to  my  father's  abuse  when  it  became 
known  to  a  few  of  his  friends  that  I  had  been  seen  in  com 
pany  with  the  collier's  daughter.  I  endured  all,  and  was 
willing  to  endure  more.  He  seemed  to  have  a  peculiar  dis 
like  of  Evelina's  father,  as  also  to  her.  This  I  could  not 
•account  for. 

"At  length  I  became  of  age,  and  on  my  birthday  my 
father  called  me  to  him,  and,  in  his  usual  stern,  uncompro 
mising  way,  asked  me  if  I  persisted  in  paying  attention  to 
Evelina.  I  answered  promptly  that  I  did.  I  had  had  so 
many  conflicts  that  I  had  lost,  much  of  my  timidity,  and 
I.  now  defined  my  position  clear,  and  maintained  it  reso 
lutely. 

*  "  '  Then  leave  my  house  at  once  ! '  said  my  father.     '  I 

throw  you  from  me  as  I  would  a  reptile  from  my  clothes  ; 

and  go,  go  with  my  curse  upon  you  !     Take  your  penniless 

girl,  and  build  yourself  a  name  if  you  can ;  for  you  have  lost 

the  one  you  might  have  held  with  honor  to  yourself  and  to 

me.     I  had  chosen  for  you  a  wife,  a  rich  and  fashionable 

•lady,  the  daughter  of  a  nobleman,  and  one  of  whom  to  be 

proud  ;   but  you  have  thought  best  to  be  your  own  judge  in 

"such  matters,  and  you  made  a  fool  of  yourself.     But  you 

shall  not  stamp  my  family  with  such  folly,  or  wed  its  name 

,    to  dishonor.' 

•"  I  endeavored  to  reply ;  but  he  would  hear  no  word  from 

.my  lips.     He  sprang  from  his  seat,  walked  the  room  in  the 

greatest  rage,  and  whenever  I  opened  my  mouth  to  speak 

would  shout,   '  Stop  your   noise,    you   ungrateful,  heartless 

wretch  ! ' 

"  He  was  determined  to  carry  out  his  threat.  That  night 
ic  locked  me  out  of  the  house,  and  took  special  pains  to  make 
he  windows  fast.  In  the  papers  of  the  next  day  he  adver- 


348  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

tised  me  as  disinherited  and  cast  off,  and  warned  the  world 
against  me.  He  also  circulated  false  reports  respecting  me, 
and  spared  neither  money  nor  effort  to  injure  me.  He  preju 
diced  my  employers,  so  that  they  at  once  discharged  me, 
without  a  moment's  warning.  And  all  this  from  a  father  ! 
0,  how  often  I  thought  of  that  loving,  sympathizing  mother  ! 
How  often  I  recognized  her  presence  in  my  silent  hours  of 
thought !  Dear,  sainted  friend  !  she  was  with  me  often, 
unseen  but  not  unfelt. 

"  Evelina  faltered  not.  She  bore  all  the  opprobrium  of 
false  friends  with  a  brave  heart,  and  rested  on  my  promises 
as  the  dove  rests  its  weary  head  beneath  its  downy  wing. 
Her  father  had  confidence  in  me. 

"It  was  astonishing  how  changed  all  things  were.  The 
day  previous,  I  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  and  influential  man. 
I  was  respected,  apparently,  by  all.  Very  many  professed 
a  friendship  for  me,  and  told  me  how  much  they  valued  my 
company.  Young  ladies  politely  recognized  me  as  I  passed 
through  the  streets ;  and  old  ladies  singled  me  out  as  an 
example  for  their  sons  to  follow.  But  on  that  day  no  one 
knew  me.  Not  one  of  those  who  had  professed  such  friend 
ship  for  me  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand  when  I  needed 
their  friendly  grasp  the  most !  Young  ladies,  when  we  met, 
cast  their  glances  on  the  earth,  on  the  sky,  anywhere 
but  on  me.  Old  ladies  scandalized  me,  and  warned  the 
objects  of  their  paternal  consideration  against  a  course  like 
mine. 

§"  And  why  all  this?  It  was  because  I  loved  Evelina, — a 
poor  man's  only  child  !  " 

CHAPTER    III. 

Egbert's  health  seemed  to  improve  now  that  he  was  in 
more  comfortable  quarters,  and  had  sympathizing  friends  to 


THE   DISINHERITED.  349 

whom  he  could  narrate  the  story  of  his  life.  In  the  course 
of  a  few  days  he  rode  out  a  short  distance.  After  a  rest 
of  a  \veek,  during  which  his  strength  had  increased,  he 
continued  his  narrative,  in  which  we  had  become  deeply 
interested. 

(t  I  found  a  home  at  the  cottage  of  Evelina.  We  made 
arrangements  to  be  married  according  to  law,  and  in  due  time  I 
applied  to  the  minister  of  the  town  to  perform  the  ceremonies. 
I  was  surprised  when  he  refused ;  yet  I  well  knew  what 
inducements  led  him  to  act  thus.  My  father  was  the  leading 
man  in  his  church.  The  minister  looked  to  him  as  one  of 

•  the  chief  pillars  of  support  to  his  society,  and  consequently 
to  his  means  of  livelihood.  There  was  no  one  in  the  town 
upon  whom  the  public  eye,  religious  or  political,  rested  with 
'more  hope  than  upon  my  father.  He  exhorted  in  the  meet- 

,.ings  with  an  earnestness  worthy  of  the  most  devoted -follower 
of  Cromwell ;  and  was  as  strict  and  rigid  in  the  performance 
of  his  public  religious  duties  as  the  most  precise  Puritan  of 
the  old  school  could  wish.  Did  the  chapel  need  repairs,  my 
father  was  consulted.  Was  it  proposed  to  make  a  donation 
to  the  pastor,  my  father  was  expected  to  head  the  list  with  a 
large  subscription,  and  he  did.  Was  it  strange,  then,  that 
he  gave  such  a  decided  refusal  to1  my  simple  request,  know- 

.   ing,   as  he  did,  and  everybody .  did,  my  circumstances  1     It 

»  seems  not.  Perhaps  it  was  foolish  for  me  to  ask  a  favor  of 
such  a  man ;  but  I  did,  and  he  had  -an  opportunity  of  exhib 
iting  his  allegiance  to  public  opinion,  and  his  disregard  of  the 
voice  within,  that  must  have  commanded  him  to  do  right, 

,  and  to  adhere  to  truth  and  justice  in  the  face  of  all 
.  opposition. 

•'  It  was  soon  noised  abroad  that  I  had  endeavored  to  get 

married  and  had  failed.     There  was  great  rejoicing,  and  one 

.  old  lady  took  the  trouble  to  send  her  man-servant  to  me  with 

the  message  that  she  was  glad  to  know  that  her  good  pastor 

30 


350  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

had  indignantly  refused  to  place  bis  seal  on  my  bond  of 
iniquity. 

"  Tbe  dark  cloud  tbat  all  tbis  time  overshadowed  my 
path  rested  also  on  the  path  of  Evelina's  father.  This  was 
all  that  troubled  me.  He,  good  man,  had  more  true  religion 
in  his  soul  than  the  pastor  and  all  the  people  in  theirs ;  yet 
he  was  scorned  and  ill-treated.  All  this  was  not  new  to  him. 
He  had  lived  in  that  town  four-and-forty  years,  and  had 
always  been  frowned  upon  by  the  boasting  descendants  of 
proud  families,  and  had  received  but  little  good  from  their 
hands.  The.  church  looked  upon  him  as  a  poor,  incorrigible 
sinner.  No  one  spoke  to  him,  unless  it  was  to  ask  him  to 
perform  some  hard  job.  It  was  not  strange  that,  judging 
from  the  works  of  the  people  who  called  themselves  Chris 
tians,  he  had  a  dislike  to  their  forms.  He  chose  a  living 
Christianity ;  and  theirs.  wyith  all  its  rites,  with  all  its  pre 
tensions,  with  all  its  heralded-  faith,  was  but  a  mockery  to 
him.  It  was  but  a  shadow  of  a  substantial  reality.  He 
chose  the  substance ;  he  rejected  the  shadow,  and  men  called 
him  '  infidel '  who  "had  not  a  tithe  of  vital  religion  in  their 
own  souls,  while  his  was  filled  to  repletion  with  that  heavenly 
boon. 

"For  a  time  the  war  of  persecution  raged  without,  and  slan 
der  and  base  innuendoes  the.  weapons  were  employed  against 
us.  But  within  all  was  peace  and  quiet,  and  our  home  was 
indeed  a  heaven,—  for  we  judged  that  heaven  is  no  locality, 
no  ideal  country  staked  off  so  many  leagues  this  way,  and 
so  many  that ;  but  that  it  is  in  our  own  souls,  and  we  could 
have  our  heaven  here  as  well  as  beyond  the  grave.  We 
thought  Christ  meant  so  when  he  said  '  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  within  you ' !  We  pitied  those  who  were  always 
saying  that  when  they  reached  heaven  there  would  be  an 
end  of  all  sorrow,  and  wished  they  could  see  as  we  did  that 


THE   DISINHERITED.  351 

heaven  was  to  reach  them,  not  they  to  reach  it.  We  feared 
that  the  saying  of  Pope, 

'  Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest,' 

might  prove  true  of  them,  and  that  even  when  they  had 
passed  the  boundary  which  they  fancied  divided  them  from 
heaven,  they  would  yet  be  looking  on  to  some  future  state 
for 'the  anticipated  bliss. 

"  What  cared  we,  in  our  home,  for  the  jibes  and  sneers  and 

falsehoods  without  ?     Those   who  are  conscious  of  being  in 

the  right  have  no  fear  of  the  goal  to  which  their  feet  are 

•  tending.     I  heard  from  my  father  often,  but  never  met  him. 

By  some  means  he  always  evaded  me.     That  .which  troubled 

him  most  was  the  calmness  with  which  I  received  the  results 

of  his  course  towards  me.     He  knew  that  I  was  happy  and 

> contented.     This  was  what  troubled  him.     Had  1  manifested 

a  great  sorrow  and  writhing  beneath  what  he  deemed  troubles, 

he  would  have  greatly  rejoiced,  and  so  would  all  his  friends. 

"  I  had  accumulated  a  small  property,  and  was  prosper- 
.  ing,  notwithstanding  the  efforts  of  many  to  embarrass  me. 
A  few  began  to  see  that  I  was  not  so  bad  as  I  had  been  rep 
resented  to  be,  and  they  began  to  sympathize  with  me.  This 
aroused  my  father's  anger  afresh. 

"  We  had  been  married  by  a  magistrate  of  another  town, 
.and  the  clouds  above. our  outside  or  temporary  affairs  seemed 
breaking  away,  when  an  event  occurred  that  frustrated  all 
our  plans. 

"  One  evening  I  heard  the  cry  of '  fire,'  and,  on  attempting 
to  go  out,  I  found  the  entry  of  the  house  filled  with  a  dense 
smoke.  The  smoke  poured  into  the  room  in  which  Evelina 
and  her  father  were  seated.  I  rushed  to  the  window,  dashed 
it  out,  and,  having  seen  my  wife  and  her  father  safely  depos 
ited  without,  secured  what  of  the  property  I  could.  In  a 


352  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

few  moments  the  cottage  was  enveloped  in  flames,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  no  vestige  of  our  happy  home  remained, 
except  the  smoking  embers  and  a  heap  of  ashes.  We  AVCIX 
now,  indeed,  poor  in  gold  and  lands ;  but  it  seemed  to  each 
of  us  that  what  had  been  taken  from  our  purse  had  been  put 
in  our  hearts,  for  we  loved  each  other  more  than  ever  before, " 
if  such  a  love  were  possible ;  and,  though  we  received  but. 
little  sympathy  from  without,  we  had  a  fund  of  sympathy 
within,  that  made  us  forget  our  seeming  sorrows,  and  rejoice 
in  bliss  unspeakable. 

"  It  was  reported  that  I  had  fired  the  cottage.  I  well 
knew  with  whom  this  charge  originated,  and  I  had  good 
reasons  for  believing  that  the  match  that  fired  our  house  came 
from  the  same  source. 

"Our  condition  was  such  that  we  concluded  to  leave  the 
place  where  so  much  had  been  endured,  and  those  who  had 
strewn  our  path  with  what  they  intended  for  thorns  and 
brambles. 

'•  We  left.  We  journeyed  to  Liverpool,  and  engaged  a 
passage  in  a  New  York  packet  for  the  United  States.  It 
was  a  beautiful  morning  Avhen  AVC  set  sail,  and  everything 
seemed  reviving  in  the  possessing  of  life.  Our  ship's  flags 
looked  like  smiling  guardians  as  they  fluttered  above  us.  ami 
all  on  board  the  '  White  Wing '  were  happy.  There  were 
about  three  hundred  passengers.  There  were  old  and  young ; 
some  travelling  on  business,  some  for  a  place  they  might 
call  their  home,  some  for  pleasure,  and  a  few  for  the  im 
provement  of  their  health.  There  were  entire  families,  and, 
in  some  cases,  those  of  three  generations.  How  varied  were 
the  hopes  that  filled  their  souls  !  how  different  the  objects 
that  led  them  forth  over  the  deep  and  trackless  sea.  exposing 
themselves  to  countless  perils  ! 

"  Evelina  and  myself  mused  thus  as  we  sat  on  the  deck  - 
at  twilight  of  the  first  day  out,  and  watched  the  movements, 


THE   DISINHERITED.  353 

and  listened  to  the  various  expressions  that  fell  from  the  lips 
of  the  crowded  passengers. 

"  She  always  had  a  bright  gleam  of  religious,  philosophical 
thought,  with  which  to  illumine  every  hour  of  our  existence, 
and  radiate,  with  heavenly  joy,  our  every  conversation. 
'  There  are  not  more  dangers  here  than  on  land,'  said  she; 
'  to  be  true  to  our  inner  consciousness,  we  must  say  that 
wherever  we  are  we  are  exposed  to  peril,  and  wherever  we 
are  we  are  protected  from  evil.  I  have  known  a  man  to 
cross  the  ocean  a  hundred  times,  and  fall  at  last  at  his  own 
door,  and  by  it  become  maimed  for  life.  There  is  no  such  a 
thing  as  an  accident.  Every  result  has  a  'legitimate  cause. 
Everything  acts  in  obedience  to  undeviating  laws  of  God. 
"VVe  complain  when  we  fall,  but  the  same  law  that  causes  us 
'  to  fall  guides  planets  in  their  course,  and  regulates  every 
motion  of  every  object.  It  is  only  when  we  disobey  these 
laws  that  evil  comes,  and  every  transgression  receives  its 
own  penalty.  It  is  impossible  that  it  should  be  otherwise.' 

"  We  soon  became  acquainted  with  a  number  of  the  pas 
sengers,  and  passed  very  many  pleasant  and  profitable  hours 
together.  Evelina  was  the  light  of  every  circle,  and  the 
days  flew  by  on  rapid  wings.  The  ship  had  made  a  rapid 
passage,  and  we  were  fast  nearing  our  destined  haven. 

"One  Sabbath  evening  a  storm  commenced.  The  wind 
blew  a  hurricane.  Everything  on  deck  was  lashed,  and  the 
sea  rolled  and  pitched  our  vessel  about  as  though  it  had  been 
but  a  feather  on  its  surface.  We  had  all  day  expected  the 
storm,  and  were  prepared  for  it.  As  night  advanced  the 
storm  increased.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  the  darkness 
was  most  intense.  After  a  while,  the  lightning  came,  and 
the  thunder  reverberated  with  terrific  peals  over  us.  There 
were  shrieks  and  wailings  aboard  our  vessel,  and  many  a 
brave  heart  quailed  beneath  the  terror  upon  us. 

''•  I  cared  not  for  myself.  My  chief  concern  was  for  my 
30* 


354  TOWN    AND    COUNTKY. 

dear  wife  and  her  father.  We  kept  our  state-room  for  a  long 
time,  but  at  length  deemed  it  prudent  to  leave  it.  As  we 
did  so,  we  heard  an  awful  crash,  and  many  a  shriek  and 
hurried  prayer.  I  myself  began  to  fear,  as  the  mast  and 
flying  rigging  went  by  us;  but  Evelina,  even  in  such  an 
hour,  had  words  to  cheer  us  all.  She  seemed,  indeed,  more 
of  heaven  than  earth  ;  and  I  cared  not  for  my  fate,  provided 
•we  both  met  the  same. 

"  The  captain  ordered  the  boats  to  be  got  in  readiness,  and 
it  was  quickly  done.  Soon  another  crash,  and  another  mast 
fell,  bearing  to  the  raging  abyss  of  waters  another  company 
of  helpless  men,  women  and  children. 

"  I  clasped  my  wife  in  my  arms,  and,  amid  the  wreck  and 
frantic  crowd  of  passengers,  sprang  to  a  boat.  I  placed 
Evelina  in  it,  and  was  just  about  to  assist  her  father  to  the 
same  boat,  when  a  large  wave  dashed  over  the  ship  and  bore 
me  alone  over  the  wide  waters.  I  remembered  no  more 
until  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  the  sun  was  shining  brightly 
all  around  me,  and  a  young  man  was  bathing  my  head,  and 
brushing  back  my  wet  hair,  while  some  were  standing  by 
expressing  great  joy. 

"I  soon  became  conscious  of  my  situation,  and  I  asked 
for  Evelina.  What  a  sadness  filled  my  soul  when  I  was  told 
she  was  not  there, —  that  they  had  not  heard  of  any  such  per 
son  !  Human  language  is  weak  with  which  to  express  the 
sorrow  I  then  felt.  Through  all  my  varied  life  I  had  had 
nothing  that  so  crushed  niy  spirit,  and  filled  it  with  a  sense 
of  loneliness  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe.  I  ascertained 
that  I  was  on  board  of  a  vessel  bound  to  Boston :  that  I  was 
found  holding  on  a  raft,  almost  insensible  when  found,  and 
quite  so  a  few  moments  afterwards.  For  a  long  time  no  one 
expected  that  I  would  recover  my  consciousness,  but  the 
constant  efforts  of  the  passengers  and  crew  were  finally 
crowned  with  success,  and  I  opened  my  eyes. 


THE    DISINHERITED.  355 

"  I  gave  all  the  information  I  could  respecting  the  fate  of 
the  vessel,  but  thoughts  of  my  wife,  and  surmisings  as  to  her 
fate  and  that  of  her  father,  often  choked  my  utterance,  and 
my  words  gave  way  for  my  tears. 

"  The  next  morning  I  was  delirious,  with  a  fever.  My 
anxiety  for  my  wife,  and  the  exposure  I  had  suffered,  brought 
my  body  and  mind  into  a  very  critical  state.  For  several 
days  I  talked  wildly.  At  the  close  of  the  fifth,  I  became 
sane  in  mind.  I  was  yet  quite  ill.  That  night  the  ship 
entered  Boston  harbor.  It  anohored  in  the  stream,  and  the 
next  morning  it  hauled  up  to  a  wharf. 

CHAPTER     IV. 

"  I  was  a  perfect  stranger.  I'he  captain  was  attentive  to 
my  wants,  and  made  me  as  comfortable  as  he  could.  You 
will  remember  how  neat  and  quiet  all  appeared  when,  with 
my  friend^Jenks,  you  called  on  me.  All  of  the  passengers 
took  an  interest 'in  my  welfare,  and  made  up  a  purse  for  me ; 
but  they  could  not  remain  long  .with  me.  They  had  been 
long  absent  from  home,  and  were  desirous  of  seeing  their 
families  and  friends,  or  else  they  had  business  in  this  or  some 
other  place.  One  of  them  introduced  my  friend  Jenks  to 
'me  ;  and,  0,  sir,  he  has  been,  indeed,  a  good  friend  to  one 
having  so  few  claims  on  his  attention.  lie  told  me  one  night 
of  you,  and,  agreeable  to  his  promise,  he  brought  you  to  the 
•cabin  of  the  vessel.  The  rest  you  know." 


Egbert  had  regained  his  strength  to  a  great  degree,  and 
gave  me  the  close  of  his  narrative  while  we  were  having  a 
pleasant  drive  through  the  country.  A  month  had  passed 
since  we  first  met,  and  though  many  of  the  passengers  had 
been  heard  from,  the  names  of  Evelina  ami  her  father  had 
.  not  been  reported. 


356  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

When  we  reached  our  home,  from  our  afternoon's  drive, 
I  took  up  an  evening  paper,  and  the  first  paragraph  I  read 
was  the  following : 

"  MORE  FROM  THE  WHITE  WING.  —  The  Orion,  which 
arrived  at  this  port  this  morning,  brought  fifteen  passengers, 
rescued  from  the  boats  of  the  '  White  Wing.'  ' 

Among  the  names  mentioned  in  the  above  notice  were 
these :  "  Mrs.  Evelina  Lawrence  and  her  father,  of  England ; " 
and,  at  the  conclusion,  was  the  following  item  : . 

"  The  case  of  Mrs.  Lawrence  and  her  father  is  one  of 
those  that  loudly  call  for  a  bestowal  of  public  sympathy  and 
aid  in  her  behalf.  She  has  lost  a  beloved  husband, —  one  who, 
judging  from  the  heavy  sorrow  that  oppresses  her,  and  the 
sighs  and  tears  that  break  her  recital  of  the  events  of  their 
last  hours  together,  was  bound  with  the  closest  bonds  of  soul 
affinity  to  her  own  spirit.  They  must  have  been  one,  and 
are,  indeed,  one  now,  though  to  mortal  eyes  separated.  We 
commend  her  to  the  kind  charities  of  those  who  would  follow 
the  golden  rule  of  doing  unto  others  as  they,  in  like  circum 
stances,  would  have  others  do  unto  them." 

Egbert  noticed  my  interest  in  that  which  I  was  reading ; 
indeed,  it  would  have  been  .strange  if  he  had  not;  for  I  could 
not  suppress  my  joy,  and  it  found  expression  in  an  occasional 
exclamation. 

At  length,  I  handed  him  the  paper. 

"  My  God  !  my  wife  !  "  he  exclaimed,  'and  he  actually 
danced  with  joy  and  thankfulness.  He  would  have  rushed 
into  the  street,  and  by  sudden  exposure  have  caused  a 
relapse  of  disease,  had  not  I  taken  him  by  the  hand,  and 
forcibly,  for  a  few  moments,  restrained  him.  So  excessive 
was  his  happiness  that,  for  a  short  time,  he  was  delirious  witli 
joy.  He  laughed  and  wept  by  turns :  at  one  moment  ex- 


Tlia    DISINHERITED.  857 

tending  his  arms,  and  folding  them  as  if  clasping  a  beloved 
form  ;  the  next,  trembling  as  if  in  some  fearful  danger.  But 
this  did  not  long  continue.  He  soon  became  calm  and 
rational,  and  we  called  a  carriage  for  the  purpose  of  going 
to  the  vessel  on  board  of  which  he  expected  to  greet  his  wife 
and  her  father. 

My  neighbor  Jenks  accompanied  us,  and,  as  we  rode  hastily 
along,  my.  mind  reverted  to  the  night  when  first  I  met 
Egbert.  That  eventful  evening  came  more  vividly  to  mind 
as  we  found  ourselves  on  the  same  wharf,  and  the  carriage 
door  was  opened,  and  we  alighted  on  nearly  the  same  spot 
/that  we  did  at  that  time. 

Egbert  leaped  from  the  carriage,  arid  at  one  bound  was  on 
the  vessel's-deck.  He  flew  to  the  cabin,  and  in  a  moment  I 
heard  the  loud  exclamations  an  either  side,  "  My  Evelina  !  " 
' '  My  Egbert ! ' '  Mr.  Jenks  and  myself  followed  below.  An 
old  gentleman  met  us.  and,  though  a  stranger,  he  grasped  a 
hand  of  ours  in  each  of  his,  and  wept  with  joy  as  he  bade  us 
welcome.  The  cabin  was  witness  of  a  scene  which  a  painter 
well  might  covet  for  a  study.  Inclose  embrace  Egbert  and 
.Evelina  nr'ngled  joys  that  seldom  are  known  on  earth.  The 
old  man  hold  our  hands,  his  face  raised,  eyes  turned  upward, 
while  tears  of  happiness,  such  as  he  had  never  before  known, 
coursed  down  his  features.  The  officers  of  the  ship  came 
'hurrying  in,  and  the  crew  darkened  the  gangway  with  their 
presence.  What  a  joyous  time  was  that !  The  evening  was 
passed  in  re-counting  the  adventures  of  each :  and  even  I  had 
something  to  add  to  the  general  recital.  It  appeared  that 
the  boat  in  which  Egbert  had  placed  his  charge  was  safely 
cleared  of  the  wreck,  and,  after  being  floated  about  two  days, 
was  met  by  an  English  ship  bound  to  London.  They, 
together  with  about  twenty  others  who  were  in  the  boat,  were 
soon  comfortably  cared  for.  At  the  expiration  of  a  few 
weeks,  they  reached  London,  and  were  there  placed  on  board 


358  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

a  vessel  bound  to  Boston,  at  which  place  they  in  due  season 
arrived.  The  grief  of  Mrs.  L.  during  all  this  time  I  -will 
not  attempt  to  describe.  The  mind  of  my  reader  can  better 
depict  it  than  I  can  with  pen.  Hope  buoyed  her  up.  And, 
though  she  had  seen  him  swept  from  her  side  into  the  waters 
where  waves  towered  up  to  the  skies  and  sank  again  many 
fathoms  below,  yet  she  did  hope  she  might  see  him  again  on 
earth. 

In  the  silent  hour  of  night,  as  she  lay  and  mused  of  those 
things,  she  thought  she  could  hear  a  sweet  voice  whispering 
in  her  ear,  "  Berty  lives,  and  you  will  meet  him  once 
again."  And,  as  if  in  response  to  the  voice,  she  said  in  her 
'own  mind,  "I  know  he  lives;  but  it  may  be  in  that  bright 
world  where,  unencumbered  with  these  mortal  frames,  we  roam 
amid  ever-enduring  scenes."  »The  voice  again  said,  "On 
earth,  on  earth." 

But  now  they  had  met.  It  was  no  mere  vision  now,  and 
the  truth  flashed  upon  her  mind  that  that  voice  she  had  heard 
and  thought  a  dream  was  not  all  a  dream.  And  then  she 
mused  on  as  she  was  wont  to  do,  and,  after  relating  to  us 
the  incident,  she  said,  "  May  it  not  be  that  much  of  our  life 
that  we  have  thought  passed  in  dreamland,  and  therefore 
among  unreal  things,  has  been  spent  with  actual  existences '.' 
For  what  i$  an  '  unreal  thing '  ?  It  would  not  be  a 
'  thing  '  had  it  no  existence  ;  and  what  is  the  '  it '  that  we 
.  speak  of  I  Can  we  not  then  conclude  that  there  is  nothing  but 
what  is  and  must  have  an  existence,  though  not  so  tangible 
to  our  senses  as  to  enable  us  to  handle  it  or  see  it  1  What 
we  call  '  imagination  '  may  be,  after  all,  more  real  than  the 
hard  stones  beneath  our  feet —  less  indestructible  than  they.'' 

Thus  she  spake,  and  her  theory  seemed  very  plausible  to 
me,  though  my  friend  Jenks,  who  was  an  exceedingly  pre 
cise,  matter-of-fact  man,  could  not  see  any  foundation  for  the 
theory. 


THE   DISINHERITED.  o5(J 

It  was  a  late  hour  when  Mr.  Jenks  and  myself  passed  to 
6ui\ homes.  The  next  day  Evelina  and  her  father  were 
coseyly  quartered  at  the  house  in  which  Egbert  had  boarded. 

In  the- course  of  a  a  few  weeks  they  arranged  to  go  to  the 
west,  and  locate  in  a  flourishing  town  on  the  banks  of  the 
Ohio,  not  many  miles  above  Cincinnati. 

Mr.  Jenks  and  myself  accompanied  them  to  the  cars ;  and, 
amid  our  best  wishes  for  their  success,  and  their  countless 
expressions  of  gratitude  to  us,  the  train  started,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  Disinherited  was  going  to  an  inheritance  which 
(}od  had  provided,  and  which  lay  in  rich  profusion  awaiting 
their  possession. 

Our  hearts  went  with  them.  We  could  truly  say  they 
were  worthy  God's  blessing  ;  yet  we  had  not  need  ask  him  to 
bestow  it  upon  them ;  for  their  very  existence  was  a  proof 
that  he  gave  it  to  them.' 


THE   SEASONS  ALL  ARE  BEAUTIFUL 

THE  seasons  all  are  beautiful, 

There  is  not  one  that 's  sad, — 
Not  one  that  does  not  give  to  thee 

A  thought  to  make  thee  glad. 
I  have  heard  a  mournful  cadence     - 

Fall  on  my  listening  ear,  — 
'T  was  some  one  whispering,  mournfully, 

"  The  Autumn  days  are  here." 

But  Autumn  is  not  sorrowful,  — 

0,  full  of  joy  is  it ; 
I  love  at  twilight  hour  to  watch 

The  shadows  as  they  flit,  — 
The  shadows  of  the  falling  leaves, 

Upon  their  forest  bed, 
And  hear  the  rustling  music  tones 

Beneath  the  maiden's  tread. 

The  falling  leaf!     Say,  what  has  it 

To  sadden  human  thought  ? 
For  are  not  all  its  hours  of  life 

With  dancing  beauty  fraught? 
And,  having  danced  and  sang  its  joy, 

It  seeketh  now  its  rest,  — 
Is  there  a  better  place  for  it 

Than  on  its  parent's  breast? 

Ye  think  it  dies.     So  they  of  old 

Thought  of  the  soul  of  man. 
But,  ah,  ye  know  not  all  its  course 

Since  first  its  life  began, 
And  ye  know  not  what  future  waits, 

Or  what  essential  part 


THE   SEASONS  ALL   ARE   BEAUTIFUL.  361 

That  fallen  leaf  has  yet  to  fill, 

In  God's  great  work  of  art. 

. 

Count  years  and  years,  then  multiply 

The  whole  till  ages  crowd 
Upon  your  mind,  and  even  then 

Ye  shall  not  see  its  shroud. 
But  ye  may  see,  —  if  look  you  can 

Upon  that  fallen  leaf,  — 
A  higher  life  for  it  than  now 

The  life  you  deem  BO  brief. 

And  so  shall  we  to  higher  life 

And  purer  joys  ascend ; 
And,  passing  on,  and  on,  and  on, 

Be  further  from  our  end. 
This  is  the  truth  that  Autumn  brings,  — 

Is  aught  of  sorrow  here'? 
If  not,  then  deem  it  beautiful, 

Keep  back  the  intrusive  tear. 

Spring  surely  you  '11  call  beautiful, 

With  its  early  buds  and  flowers, 
Its  bubbling  brooks,  its  gushing  streams, 

And  gentle  twilight  hours. 
And  Summer,  that  is  beautiful, 

With  fragrance  on  each  breeze, 
And  myriad  warblers  that  give 

Free  concerts  'mong  the  trees. 

I  've  told  you  of  the  Autumn  days,  — 

Ye  cannot  call  them  sad, 
With  such  a  lesson  as  they  teach, 

To  make  the  spirit  glad. 
And  Winter  comes  ;  how  clear  and  cold, 

In  dazzling  brilliance  drest !  — 
Say,  is  not  Winter  beautiful, 

With  jewels  on  his  crest  ? 

Thus  are  all  seasons  beautiful ; 

They  all  have  joy  for  thee, 
And  gladness  for  each  living  soul 

Comes  from  them  full  and  free. 

31 


SPRING. 

IT  is  early  spring-time.  The  winter  has  passed  with  reluc 
tant  step,  and  even  now  the  traces  of  its  footsteps  are  discern 
ible  on  every  side.  At  noon  of  these  bright  days  the  sun 
looks  down  smilingly  upon  the  soil  it  seeks  to  bless  with  its 
cheerful,  cheering  rays.  The  tiny  grass-blades  peep  out, 
and  stretch  forth  thek-  graceful  forms,  as  if  to  thank  the 
unknown  source  from  which  their  enjoyments  spring.  "Un 
known,"  I  said.  Is  it  "fancy"  that  makes  my  soul  withdraw 
that  word,  and  suggest  that  it  may  be  that  even  that  blade 
of  grass  recognizes  the  hand  that  ministers  to  all  its  wants? 
I  think  not.  I  think  that  what  we  term  "fancy"  and 
"  imagination  "  are  the  most  real  and  enduring  portions 
of  existence.  They  are  of  that  immortal  part  that  will  live 
after  crumbling  column  and  the  adamantine  foundations  of 
earth  have  passed  away,  and  lost  their  present  identity  in 
countless  forms  of  a  higher  existence.  Are  not  all  the  forces 
of  nature  unseen,  yet  are  they  not  real  1  Most  assuredly, 
they  are.  But  I  am  talking  of  spring.  I  hinted  at  winter's 
tardy  withdrawal.  Look  you  how  that  little  pile  of  snow 
hides  itself  in  yonder  shady  nook, —  right  there  where  the 
sun's  rays  never  come ;  right  there,  as  if  ashamed,  like  a 
man  out  of  place, —  pity  that  it  lingers.  Here  and  there,  at 
the  side  of  the  brook,  a  little  ice  is  waiting  to  be  dissolved, 
that  it  may  bound  away,  bright  and  sparkling,  over  the  glis 
tening  pebbles. 

The  fanner  opens  his  barn  doors  that  the  warm,  fresh 


SPRING.  363 

breeze  may  ramble  amid  its  rafters.  The  cattle  snuff  the 
refreshing  winds,  that  bear  tidings  of  green  fields.  The  house 
wife  opens  door  and  windows,  and  begins  to  live  more  with 
out  than  within. 

Let  us  to  the  woods.  How  the  old  leaves  rustle  beneath 
our  tread  !  Winter  hides  his  cold,  wet  hand  underneath  these 
leaves,  and  occasionally  we  feel  his  chilling  touch  as  we  pass 
along.  But  from  above  the  pleasant  sunshine  comes  trick 
ling  down  between  the  branches,  and  the  warm  south  wind 
blows  cheeringly  among  the  trees. 

"  Didst  thou  not  hear  yon  swallow  sing, 
Chirp,  chirp  ?  —  In  every  note  he  seemed  to  say, 
'T  is  spring,  't  is  spring." 

Yes,  't  is  spring ;  bright,  glorious  season,  when  nature 
awakes  to  new  life  .and  forest-concerts  begin. 

Up  with  the  window,  throw  open  the  closed  shutter,  let 
the  fresh  air  in,  and  let  the  housed  captive  breathe  the  invig 
orating  elixir  of  life ;  better  by  far  than  all  your  pills  and 
cordials,  and  more  strengthening  than  all  the  poor-man's 
plasters  that  have  been  or  ever  will  be  spread. 

•  The  hale  and  hearty  youth,  whose  clear  and  boisterous 
laugh  did  the  old  man  good,  as  he  heard  it  ring  forth  on  the 
clear  air  of  a  winter's  night,  has  become  satiated  with  the 
pleasures  of  sleigh-rides  and  merry  frolics,  and  welcomes  the 
spring-time  of  year  as  a  man  greeteth  the  return  of  an  old 
friend  from  a  long  journey.  How  his  bright  eye  flashes  with 
the  joyous  soul  within  him,  as  he  treads  the  earth,  and  beholds 
the  trees  put  forth  their  buds,  and  hears  the  warblings  of  the 
birds  once  again,  where  a  few  weeks  since  winter  brooded  in 
silence  ! 

In  town  and  country  the  coming  of  spring  changes  the 
general  appearance  of  affairs.  Not  only  nature,  but  men 
change.  There  is  no  longer  the  cold  and  frigid  countenance. 
Men  do  not  walk  with  quick  and  measured  tread,  but  pass 


364  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

carelessly,  easily  along,  as  though  it  was  a  luxury  and  not  a 
task  to  walk.  Children  are  seen  in  little  companies,  pluck 
ing  the  flowers  and  forcing  the  buds  from  their  stems,  as 
though  to  punish  them  for  their  tardiness. 

-The  very  beasts  of  burden  and  of  the  field  partake  of  the 
general  joy  ;  as  Thomson  says, 

"  Nor  undelighted  by  the  boundless  spring 
Are  the  broad  monsters  of  the  foaming  deep  ; 
From  the  deep  ooze  and  gelid  cavern  roused, 
They  flounce  and  tumble  in  unwieldy  joy." 

In  the  town  storekeepers  obtain  fresh  supplies  of  goods  ; 
the  mechanic  contracts  new  jobs ;  the  merchant  repairs  his 
vessel,  and  sends  it  forth,  deeply  freighted  with  the  produc 
tions  of  our  own  clime,  to  far  distant  lands ;  and  the  people 
generally  brush  up,  and  have  the  appearance  of  being  a  num 
ber  of  years  younger  than  they  were  a  month  since. 

In  the  country,  the  farmer  is  full  of  work.  The  ploughs 
are  brought  forth  from  their  winter  quarters,  the  earth  is 
opened,  that  the  warm  sun  and  refreshing  rains  may  prepare 
it  for  use  ;  old  fences  are  repaired,  and  new  ones  made  ;  the 
housewife  brushes  up  inside  and  out,  and  with  the  aid  of  the 
whitewash  every  old  fence  and  shed  is  made  clean  and  pleas 
ing  to  the  eye. 

Welcome  spring,  a  hearty  welcome  to  thee  !  Touch  the 
cheek  of  the  maiden,  and  make  it  as  bright  as  the  rose ;  with 
thy  fresh  air  give  health  to  the  sick  and  joy  to  the  downcast. 
Thou  bringest  with  thee  sweet-smelling  flowers,  and  the  birds 
of  the  woods  carol  forth  thy  welcome. 


A  TEXT  FOR  A  LIFETIME. 

ONE  word  for  humanity.  One  word  for  those  who  dwell 
in  want  around  us.  0,  ye  who  know  not  what  it  is  to  hun 
ger,  and  have  naught  to  meet  your  desire  ;  ye  who  never  are 
cold,  with  naught  to  warm  your  chilled  blood,  forget  not 
those  who  endure  all  .these  things.  They  are  your  brethren. 
They  are  of  the  same  family  as  yourself,  and  have  a  claim 
upon  your  love,  your  sympathy,  your  kindness. 

Live  not  for  yourselves.  The  world  needs  to  learn  this 
lesson.  Mankind  have  to  learn  that  only  as  they  bless 
others  are  they  themselves  blest.  It  was  the  fine  thought 
of  the  good  Indian,  Wah-pan-nah,  that  man  should  not 
pile  up  his  dollars, —  they  may  fall  down  and  crush  him, — 
but  spread  them  out. 

'"  There  be  dark  spot  on  you  brother's  path, —  go  lay  dol 
lar  there  and  make  it  bright,"  said  he. 

And  since  that  suggestion  came  we  have  thought  it  over 
and  over,  and  have  found  it  a  text  for  a  lifetime  of  goodness. 
Go  place  the  bright  dollar  in  the  poor  man's  hand,  and  the 
good  you  do  will  be  reflected  in  rays  of  gratitudeTrom  a 
smiling  face,  and  fall  on  you  like  the  warm  sunshine,  to 
cheer  and  refresh  and  strengthen  your  own  soul. 

There  are  in  this  world  too  many  dollars  "piled  up,"  and 
on  the  surface  we  see  but  the  brightness  of  one.  Were  these 
all  spread  out,  what  a  wide  field  of  radiant  beauty  would 
greet  our  vision  !  Instead  of  being  a  useless  encumbrance, 
a  care,  a  constant  source  of  perplexity  to  one  man,  this  wealth 
31* 


366  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

would  make  every  man  comfortable  and  happy.  It  would 
perform  its  legitimate  work,  were  it  not  chained  by  avarice, 
—  that  canker-worm  that  destroys  the  fairest  portions  of  our 
social  system. 

And  there  is  a  joy  in  doing  good,  and  in  dispensing  the 
bounties  with  which  we  are  blest,  that  hath  no  equal  in  the 
household  of  man.  To  know  that  we  have  fed  the  hungry, 
clothed  the  naked,  wiped  away  one  tear,  bathed  in  the  sun 
light  of  hope  one  desponding  spirit,  gives  to  us  a  happiness 
that  hoarded  wealth,  though  broad  as  earth  and  high  as 
heaven,  cannot  impart. 

This  is  the  true  wealth.  This  the  wealth  that  rust  cannot 
corrupt.  There  is  no  other  real  wealth  in  the  universe. 
Gold  and  silver,  houses  and  lands,  are  not  wealth  to  the 
longing,  aspiring  soul  of  man.  The  joy  of  the  spirit,  which 
is  the  reward  of  a  good  deed,  comes  a  gift  from  God,  a  treas 
ure  worthy  of  being  garnered  into  the  storehouse  of  an 
immortal  being. 

There  was  one  spot  on  earth  where  joy  reigned.  It  was 
not  in  marble  palace ;  but  in  a  low  cot,  beneath  a  roof  of 
thatch. 

There  was  an  indwelling  sense  of  duty  done ;  a  feeling 
somewhat  akin  to  that  which  we  might  suppose  angels  to 
feel,  when  a  poor,  earth-wearied  traveller  is  relieved  by 
them. 

That  was  a  subject  fit  for  a  Raphael's  pencil,  as  she,  of 
form  «ftd  feature  more  angelic  than  human,  sat  beside  that 
cottage  door,  and  her  mild  blue  eye  gazed  steadfastly  up  to 
heaven,  and  the  light  of  the  moon  disclosed  to  mortal  view 
her  calm  and  beautiful  features. 

Two  hours  previous,  over  a  sick  and  languishing  child  a 
mother  bowed  with  maternal  fondness.  She  pressed  her  lips 
to  his  chilled  forehead,  and  wiped  the  cold  sweat  from  his 
aching  brow. 


A   TEXT   FOR  A   LIFETIME.  367 

"Be  patient,  my  child,"  said  she;  "God  will  provide." 
And  why  did  she  bid  him  "  be  patient  "  ?  None  could  have 
been  more  so  ;  for  through  the  long  hours  of  that  long  sum 
mer  day  he  had  lain  there,  suffered  and  endured  all ;  yet 
not  one  sigh  had  arisen  from  his  breast,  not  one  complaint 
had  passed  his  parched  lips. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  he.  And  the  mother  kissed  him  again, 
and  again  said, 

"  God  will  provide." 

Mother  and  son  !  the  one  sick,  the  other  crushed  down 
with  poverty  and  sorrow.  Yet  in  this  her  hour  of  adversity 
her  trust  in  the  God  of  her  fathers  wavered  not ;  she  firmly 
relied  on  Him  for  support,  whom  she  had  never  found  for 
getful  of  her.  The  widow  and  the  fatherless  were  in  that 
low  tenement,  and  above  was  the  God  who  had  promised  to 
'protect  them. 

Again  she  whispered  in  the  lad's  ear,  "God  will  provide." 

The  light  of  that  day's  sun  had  not  rested  upon  food  in 
that  dwelling.  Heavily  the  hours  passed  by.  Each  seemed 
'  longer  than  that  which  had  preceded  it. 

A  rap  at  the  door  was  heard.  She  arose  and  hastened  to 
it.  No  person  was  in  sight ;  but  in  the  moon's  bright  rays 
stood  a  basket,  on  which  lay  a  card,  stating  that  it  and  its 
contents  were  for  her  and  her  child,  and  that  on  the  morrow  a 
nurse  and  every  comfort  they  might  want  would  be  provided. 

•  She  bowed  herself  beside  it,  and  thanked  God  for  the  gift. 
Then  with  a  joyful  heart  she  carried  it  within,  and  her  child's 
eye  sparkled  as  he  heard  the  glad  news,  that  He  who  watcheth 
the  sparrows  had  not  forgotten  them. 

Let  us  return  now  to  that  thatched  cottage.  She,  whose 
mild  eye  gazeth  up  to  heaven,  whilst  passing  the  door  of  the 
famishing  mother  and  child  an  hour  previous,  had  heard  the 
words  with  which  that  mother  had  encouraged  her  dying  son. 

With  speed  the  maiden  hastened  to  her  home,  and  from 


368  TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 

her  own  limited  store  carried  forth  that  basket,  and  heaven- 
like  bestowed  the  gift  unseen  and  unknown,  save  by  Him 
who  seeth  and  who  rewardeth.  The  deed  of  mercy  accom 
plished,  she  hastened  to  her  home ;  and  now,  as  she  looks 
upward,  how  her  eye  beams  with  joy,  and  her  heart  breaks 
forth  in  songs  of  gratitude  to  Him  who  made  her  the  instru 
ment  of  so  much  good  ! 

Gold,  with  all  its  power,  cannot  bring  joy  unless  dealt 
forth  with  a  willing  heart  like  hers.  The  king  in  his  palace, 
whose  sceptre's  sway  extends  over  vast  dominions,  hath  no 
pleasures  capable  of  rivalling  that  which,  by  an  act  of  charity, 
was  brought  to  the  soul  of  that  young  cottage  girl. 

Reader,  whatever  your  condition,  you  can  possess  a  joy  like 
hers.  If  you  have  not  what  men  call  wealth,  with  which  to 
help  the  weak  and  desponding,  you  have  a  smile  of  sympathy, 
a  look  of  kindness,  a  word  of  love.  Give  those,  and  you 
shall  know  what  a  blessed  thing  is  Charity. 


NOW    CLOSE    THE    BOOK. 

Now  close  the  book.     Each  page  hath  done  its  part, 

Each  thought  hath  left  its  impress  on  the  heart. 

0,  may  it  be  that  naught  hath  here  been  traced 

That  after  years  may  wish  to  have  effaced  ! 

O,  may  it  be  Humanity  hath  won 

Some  slight  bestowment  by  the  task  now  done  ! 

If  struggling  Right  hath  found  one  cheering  word, 
If  Hope  hath  in  desponding  heart  been  stirred , 
If  Sorrow  hath  from  one  lone  soul  been  driven 
By  one  kind  word  of  Sympathy  here  given, 
Then  in  my  soul  a  living  joy  shall  dwell, 
Brighter  than  art  can  paint  or  language  tell. 

Yes,  close  the  book  :  the  story  and  the  song 
Have  each  been  said,  and  sung.     I  see  the  throng 
Of  gentle  ministrants  who  've  led  my  pen 
Withdraw  their  aid.     I  hear  the  word,  Amen. 
And  now  to  you,  who  have  been  with  me  through 
The  "  Town  and  Country,"  I  must  bid  adieu. 


PUBLISHED    BY   J.   BUFFUM, 

No.    23    CORNHILL,    BOSTON. 


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